The Detective & the American
by ManOfBat
Summary: What if John never became Sherlock's flatmate? What if instead a girl became Sherlock's new flatmate and helped solve cases with him? (NOTE: goes through the episodes) (DISCLAIMER I do not own any stories or characters associated with Sherlock Holmes... I do own Alice though)
1. A Study In Pink: Part 1

I sat in a small leather chair across from my therapist, who sat in an identical chair. My therapist was called Ella.

She had short, neat black hair held up in a tight bun and dark skin. She always wore the same outfit: a blouse, dress jacket, dress slacks, and high heels.

It was midmorning. Sun filtered through the window on the side of the office, brightening the room. The only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock that sat next to Ella's desk.

Finally the silence in the room was broken. "How's your blog?" Ella asked.

"Fine."

She stared at me with her dark eyes. I knew she didn't believe me. After a moment she lifted her laptop from the small glass table that separated out chairs. She opened it and turned it around so I could see the screen.

The screen read: '_The personal blog of Alice Scotts'_. This was my blog…AKA the blog with only six words.

"Alice, you suffer from paranoia, and it's gonna take you some time to recover. But this blog can help you relax."

I nodded, "I know, it's just," I paused looking for the right word, "hard."

Ella smiled weakly. I could tell she was starting to lose hope. "Writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

It was silent again, with just the sound of the ticking clock.

"Nothing happens to me."


	2. A Study In Pink: Part 2

I got up early and took the Tube to Russell Square. I hadn't lived in London for too long and I didn't have a full-time job yet. I worked part-time at a video shop called HMV.  
>I was walking around the park in the square. It was quiet and no one would bother me. I was just wandering past a few benches, when a familiar voice broke through my solitude.<br>"Alice? Alice Scotts?"  
>I turned around. There on one of the benches sat Mike Stamford. I had met Mike when I first arrived in the city. He actually helped show me around. It had been a good month since I'd last seen him.<br>"Mike?"  
>"How are you?" he boomed. He had always had a loud voice. He was practically screaming.<br>"I'm good. Um, how have you been?" I stammered. I had never been good at small talk.  
>"Good! I've been teaching at Bart's. Lots of bright young students… Gosh, I hate them!" He chuckled. I smiled.<br>"So, just staying in town until you get yourself sorted?" he asked.  
>"I can't afford London on a part time job."<br>He nodded. He was quiet for a moment, as if he was thinking of something.  
>"Well, I dunno, couldn't you," he stopped himself from finishing.<br>"What?" I asked. I was curious now.  
>"I dunno, you could get a flatmate?" he offered.<br>A flatmate?… A flatmate… A FLATMATE!  
>"Mike, you're a genius!" I exclaimed, giving him a hug.<br>I suddenly silenced myself. What was I thinking?! A flatmate? I scoffed, "Wait. Who'd want _me_ as a flatmate?" The idea was absurd.  
>Mike chuckled, "You know, you're the second person to say that to me today."<br>"What, are you apart of some weird flatmate agency now?" I teased.  
>He smiled, "I think you two would actually get along quite well." I stared at him for a moment.<br>"Who did you talk to?"

Mike took me to St. Bartholomew's Hospital, where he worked. It wasn't too far from Russell Square. It was about a mile away. He led me up to one of the science labs upstairs. He opened the door and we walked inside.  
>There was only one person in the lab. A man with messy black curls. He was wearing a white dress shirt and black trousers. He sat looking down into a microscope, examining something. He didn't look too much older than me.<br>As soon as we walked in, the man spoke.  
>"Mike, can I borrow your phone?"<br>He never even looked up from his microscope.  
>"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike asked.<br>The man shrugged, "I prefer to text."  
>"Sorry it's in my coat." Mike apologized.<br>I fished into my hoodie's pocket and pulled out my phone. "Um, here. You can use mine." I offered as I held it out.  
>The man glanced up at me. "Oh, thank you." He said, accepting my cell phone.<br>"This is a friend of mine. Alice Scotts." Mike said, introducing me.  
>The man began to text furiously on the keypad.<br>"New York or Chicago?"  
>The question took me aback.<br>"Sorry?" I asked.  
>I glanced at Mike. He was just smiling.<br>"Where are you from, New York or Chicago?" the man repeated as he handed me back my phone.  
>"New York City." I replied, awkwardly.<br>Suddenly the door opened and a woman walked in. She had long, dark brown hair held up in a ponytail. She was wearing a white lab coat and was carrying a cup of coffee.  
>She immediately walked over to the man and handed him the mug.<br>"Ah, Molly, thank you."  
>She smiled.<br>"What happened to the lipstick?"  
>"It wasn't working for me." She lied. Her face slowly began to turn a light shade of pink.<br>"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now."  
>With that, the man took a sip of coffee and turned back to the microscope.<br>Molly nodded. "Okay." She said quietly as she left.  
>I wasn't too crazy about this guy already.<br>The room was quiet again.  
>"How do you feel about the violin?"<br>I blinked, "What?"  
>The man stared at me. "I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."<br>I glanced at Mike. "You told him about me?" I asked. Mike couldn't have, he didn't have his phone and didn't know I was looking for a flatmate.  
>"Not a word." Mike replied.<br>"Then who said anything about flatmates?" I asked, turning back to the man.  
>He had stood up and was pulling on a large, navy blue trench coat.<br>"I did. I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with a friend, clearly just moved here from America. Wasn't that difficult of a leap."  
>"How'd you know I was from New York? I don't have an accent."<br>He ignored me and wrapped his scarf around his neck.  
>"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry, gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."<br>_Riding crop_? He walked passed me to the door.  
>"Is that it?" I asked.<br>He stopped at the door and turned back around. "Is that what?"  
>"We've only just met and we're gonna go look at a flat together?"<br>"Problem?"  
>I smiled. This man was insane…and I liked it. The man looked me up and down for a moment.<br>"I know you're from New York City and just relocated to London a few months ago. I know you've moved here in a hurry. I'm not sure why though, probably work though. You also don't have a full-time job. Shouldn't be a problem though. And I know that your therapist thinks you're paranoid, but I think differently. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"  
>He began to turn back to the door. He suddenly stopped himself and turned back.<br>"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." He winked smugly.  
>"Afternoon." He said to Mike.<br>With that he turned on his heels and left me and Mike alone in the lab. I whipped my head around to look at Mike.  
>Mike shrugged, "Yeah, he's always like that."<p>

The next day, I took the Tube to Baker Street Station. I walked down the sidewalk to find the right building. When I found it, I walked up and knocked on the tall, black door.  
>Right as I knocked, a black cab pulled up behind me to the curb. I glanced behind me and looked at it. Suddenly, Sherlock Holmes jumped out. I watched him as he hurriedly paid the driver and turned his attention to me.<br>"Hello, Mr. Holmes." I greeted.  
>"Sherlock, please."<br>He shook my hand. He was obviously trying too hard to make a good first impression. I didn't mind though.  
>"Are you sure we could afford this?" I asked wearily as I looked up at the large building.<br>"Oh Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help."  
>"You stopped her husband from being executed?" I asked in disbelief.<br>Sherlock smirked.  
>"Oh no. I ensured it."<br>Cheeky devil.  
>Suddenly the front door opened and there stood an older lady. She had curly, light grey hair. She was wearing a floral dress and a pink cardigan.<br>"Sherlock, hello!" she greeted, pulling Sherlock into a tight hug.  
>She released Sherlock and turned to me. Before I knew what was happening, she pulled me into a hug as well.<br>"Okay, now we're hugging." I said awkwardly.  
>"Mrs. Hudson, Alice Scotts." Sherlock said, introducing us.<br>Mrs. Hudson released me from her bear-hug and smiled.  
>"Hello, come in dear."<br>I followed Sherlock through the door and into the small entryway. There was a single staircase that led upstairs and a small hallway to the right of the stairs.  
>"Shall we?" Sherlock asked.<br>Mrs. Hudson nodded and led us upstairs.  
>There was a single flat on the next floor. Mrs. Hudson opened the door and beckoned us inside.<br>The flat was an absolute pigsty. There were papers and boxes and boxes full of papers scattered everywhere. Every surface in the flat was piled high.  
>In front of me was a small couch and two windows large. To my right was a fireplace with two small armchairs and a small coffee table. A rather large desk sat next to that, by the windows. I glanced around the corner where the kitchen and back bedrooms were.<br>"This is cute." I lied.  
>Sherlock nodded as he tossed his trench coat and scarf on the sofa, "Yes. Yes I think so. My thoughts precisely."<br>I slowly walked over to one of the sitting chairs in the flat and picked up the papers thrown there. I added them to a pile on the coffee table.  
>"So I went straight ahead and moved in!" Sherlock announced as I sat down.<br>I had to stop myself from laughing. He couldn't be serious? _This _place was an absolute mess!  
>"Oh, um okay. When's the current owner going to be out?" I asked.<br>Sherlock stared at me. That's when I realized that the mess was his. Oh great.  
>"Well, obviously, I can, um, straighten things up a bit."<br>I smirked as he began to attempt to tidy up. It was cute.  
>I stood back up. On the mantelpiece sat a skull. A human skull.<br>"Is that a skull?"  
>"Friend of mine."<br>I glanced back at Sherlock who was smirking at me.  
>He continued, "Well I said 'friend'…"<br>Mrs. Hudson emerged out of the kitchen, where she had begun to do the dishes.  
>"What do you think then, Alice? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."<br>I raised my eyebrows. "Of course we'll be needing two bedrooms."  
>Mrs. Hudson laughed. "Don't worry sweetheart, I won't question you two."<br>I glanced at Sherlock. He just shrugged.  
>"Oh Sherlock. The mess you've made." Mrs. Hudson muttered.<br>I sat back in the armchair. Sherlock sat in the chair across from me.  
>"So, um, I Googled you last night." I said awkwardly.<br>Sherlock nodded, "Anything interesting?"  
>"I found your website. The Science of Deduction?"<br>Sherlock smiled proudly.  
>"What did you think?"<br>"It was interesting. Absolutely brilliant," I paused, "but you said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb?"  
>Sherlock nodded, "Yes, and I can read your short life's story in your face and your fake paranoia in your mobile phone."<br>I stared at him.  
>"How?"<br>Mrs. Hudson walked back from the kitchen. She was holding a newspaper now.  
>"What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that's be right up your street."<br>I had heard about the suicides. It was a weird case for the police.  
>Sherlock got up and walked to the window. I saw red and blue flashing lights faintly from outside the window.<br>"Four," He corrected her, "There's been a fourth, but there's something different this time."  
>Suddenly, a man walked through the door. He was half out of breath. He had nicely combed grey hair and was wearing a suit.<br>"Where?" Sherlock asked.  
>"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."<br>"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."  
>The man nodded, "You know how they leave notes? Well, this one did. Will you come?"<br>Sherlock paused for a moment. I could tell that he was thinking.  
>"Who's on forensics?"<br>"It's Anderson." The man replied.  
>Sherlock scowled.<br>"Anderson won't work with me."  
>"Well he won't be your assistant."<br>"I _need _an assistant!"  
>"Will you come?" the man asked anyway.<br>Sherlock nodded.  
>"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind."<br>The man looked relived.  
>"Thank you"<br>With that, he left.  
>As soon as the man was gone, Sherlock jumped into the air, clenching his fists in excitement. He resembled a hyper 5 year old.<br>"Brilliant, yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!"  
>He then casually pulled back on his navy blue trench coat and scarf. I just stared at him. He was insane.<br>"Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food." He added.  
>Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes.<br>"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper."  
>"Something cold with do," he turned to me, "Alice, have a cuppa tea. Make yourself at home. Don't wait up!"<br>He grabbed a small leather pouch from the coffee table and walked out. Mrs. Hudson giggled as he left.  
>"Look at him, dashing about. My husband was just the same… I'll make you a cup of…"<br>"Tea's fine." I said.  
>She hurried off into the kitchen. I picked up the newspaper Mrs. Hudson had left on the coffee table and flipped through it. There was nothing in it. Boring! I threw it back down on the table.<br>Suddenly Sherlock came back.  
>"So, what are your plans for tonight?"<br>"What are you getting at?"  
>"Well I <em>need<em> an assistant.  
>I raised my eyebrows and shook my head, but he just nodded.<br>"No."  
>"Yes."<br>I stared at him for a minute. Then I shook my head again.  
>"I can't!"<br>"But why not?" he asked.  
>"Well I don't know the first thing about serial suicides."<br>"Neither do the police."  
>I sighed and just turned my back to him.<br>"I bet you've seen a mugging or two in New York. Maybe you were even mugged yourself? Plenty of violence in New York, am I right?"  
>I shrugged, "It depends on the part of town."<br>"I'm guessing you were on that part of town."  
>I glanced back at him.<br>"Seen a lot of injuries; violent deaths?" he pushed.  
>I didn't respond.<br>"Far too much violence for one person to see?"  
>I bit my bottom lip.<br>"Wanna see some more."  
>My answer was immediate.<br>"Oh, yes please."  
>Sherlock grinned cheekily as I jumped up and grabbed my hoodie. This man was crazy… and I kinda liked it.<p>

~~~

I had to practically run down the stairs to keep up with Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson watched us leave.  
>"Both of you?" she asked.<br>Sherlock stopped at the door.  
>"Impossibly suicides? Four of them? There's no point in sitting at home when there's finally something <em>fun <em>going on!" he exclaimed kissing her on the cheek.  
>Mrs. Hudson smiled, "Look at you, all happy. It's not decent."<br>"Who chares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!"  
>We hurried out the door. I began walking in the direction of the Tube station.<br>"Where are you going?" Sherlock demanded.  
>I turned back around, "The Tube."<br>"No, too slow. We need to get to Brixton NOW." He said before hailing a cab.  
>I rolled my eyes as the black cab pulled up and hopped in with Sherlock. When the cab started driving, it was silent.<br>Finally Sherlock spoke, "Okay you've got questions."  
>"Yeah, actually I do. Where are we going?"<br>"Crime scene. Next?"  
>"Who are you and what do you do?"<br>Sherlock gave me a sideways glance.  
>"What do you think?"<br>I thought about it for a moment.  
>"I'd say a private detective… but cops don't go to private detectives."<br>"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world." He said  
>"Okay, what does that mean?"<br>"It means," he began, "When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."  
>I shook my head, smiling, "The police don't consult ammeters.<br>He looked at me.  
>"When I first met you yesterday, I said, 'New York or Chicago'. You looked surprised."<br>"Yeah, how did you know that?" I asked,  
>Sherlock smiled.<br>"I didn't know, I saw. Your outfit. Very American. You hold yourself very confidently, so I could tell you were from a city. Timid people never live in large cities. What gave it away though was your shirt. It's a New York City brand. It's hard to get outside of New York. Sure, you could've ordered it, but you don't seem like an online shopper. However, you carry yourself much like someone from Chicago. So for all I knew, you could've lived in Chicago. And when you speak, you have no trace of an accent. You possibly could've been from anywhere. But I remember Mike telling me about a girl he met you had just moved here from New York City. And that had to be you."  
>He clicked his tongue to finish.<br>Whoa, he was good.  
>"You said you thought I wasn't paranoid. Why?"<br>"Your phone. It's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flat to share - you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift then."  
>I handed him my cell phone as he began to explain.<br>"Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been dropped far too much. Yet, there is not one crack on the screen. You've never dropped it on a hard surface like concrete. Obviously this was the phone you used in your previous, or still current, job. The next bit's easy. You know it already."  
>He turned over the phone. There was an engraving on the back. It was just one letter:<p>

F

"'F' obviously stands for a business you used to, or still do, work for. I've never heard of the company. Must be an American thing. Now if you really did suffer from paranoia, you wouldn't have a job at a company that would just give you a cell phone. Obviously you had quite a high position. Then there was the whole thing with Mike running into you in the park. Someone with paranoia would never leave their house for that long."  
>He paused for a moment.<br>"You also had an assistant back in the states. Must've been quite a heavy drinker too."  
>He wasn't wrong about that. I used to share an apartment in New York with a friend. She'd always have a bottle of beer in her hand, but she had quite a lot of money, so I kept rooming with her.<br>"How could you have known about the drinking?" I asked.  
>Sherlock turned my phone over so I could see the plug in.<br>"Shot in the dark. God one, though… Power connection: tiny sctuff marks around the edge of it. Every night you'd ask your assistant to plug in your phone. But when she does, her hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drink's without them."  
>He handed me back my phone.<br>"How do you know _I _don't drink?"  
>He chuckled, "You? Please. I doubt you've ever had a drop of alcohol in your life."<br>I just stared at him. He was right.  
>It was quite in the car for a few minutes.<br>"You see, you were right." Sherlock suddenly said.  
>I continued to stare at him.<br>"Right about what?"  
>He smirked, "The police don't consult amateurs."<br>I smiled.  
>"Okay, that was amazing."<br>Sherlock looked at me. He looked surprised.  
>"Do you think so?"<br>I nodded, "Yeah. That was spectacular."  
>"That's not what people normally say."<br>"What do people usually say?"  
>He shrugged, "Piss off."<br>We looked at each other and laughed.


	3. A Study In Pink: Part 3

After about 20 minutes, the cab arrived at Lauriston Gardens in Brixton. Sherlock quickly paid the driver and we both hopped out. I followed Sherlock to the police tape strung across the road.

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock suddenly blurted.

It took me a minute to realize that he meant his deduction.

"I never had an assistant, but my roommate was an alcoholic." I admitted.

Sherlock sighed.

"Of course. How stupid of me."

I shot him a look.

"Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" I asked.

When reached the police tape, we were greeted by a woman. She was one of the officers. She wore a suit with a dress skirt. She had bushy dark hair and darker skin. I had to admit, she was pretty.

She looked at Sherlock, "Hello freak."

Okay, less pretty now.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade." Sherlock replied calmly.

The woman crossed her arms over her chest.

"Why?"

"I was invited."

"Why?"

"I think he wants me to take a look."

Sherlock's voice was dripping with sarcasm.

"Well you know what I think, don't you?" she asked.

"Always Sally."

Sherlock lifted the police tape. I ducked under it. After Sherlock ducked under it, he started loudly sniffing.

"I even know you didn't make it home last night," he said.

The woman, apparently Sally, ignored Sherlock and turned to me, "Who's this?"

"Colleague of mine, Alice Scotts." He turned to me, "Alice Scotts, Sergeant Sally Donovan," he paused, "Old friend." His voice was sarcastic again.

I reached out my arm so we could shake hands, but Donovan ignored me.

"A colleague? How do _you _get a colleague?" She turned to me, "What, did he follow you home?"

I was really starting to hate this Donovan chick.

"Should I just wait…"

"No." Sherlock immediately cut me off.

Donovan rolled her eyes.

"Freak's here. Bringing him in." she said into her radio.

I followed her and Sherlock towards the house. Sherlock kept looking around at the other building and at the ground as we walked. As we reached the fence around the house, a man dressed in blue coveralls walked out.

"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again." Sherlock said.

The man, Anderson, glared at Sherlock.

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

Sherlock sniffed loudly again, "Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?"

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that." Anderson said, his voice filled with annoyance.

"Your deodorant told me." Sherlock replied calmly.

"My deodorant?"

"It's for men."

Anderson scoffed, "Well of course it's for men. _I'm _wearing it!"

Sherlock smirked, "So it Sergeant Donovan."

Anderson whipped his head around and he looked at Donovan in shock.

Sherlock sniffed again, "Oh, and I think it just vaporized. May I go in?

Anderson turned back to Sherlock. His face was full of rage.

"Now look. Whatever you're trying to imply…"

Sherlock cut him off, "I'm not implying anything. I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat and just stayed over." He turned towards the house, "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."

Donovan and Anderson stared at Sherlock in horror.

"Alice, close your mouth. It's not polite." Sherlock said.

That's when I realized I had been standing there with my mouth a gap in shock. I quickly snapped my jaw shut.

Sherlock casually began to walk towards the front door. I followed him… but not without glancing at Donovan's knees as I passed.

When we entered the house, Sherlock pointed to a pile of blue coveralls and latex gloves.

"You need to wear one of these." He said.

There was a man in the middle of the room, already dressed in all the items in the pile.

"Who's this?" he asked.

Sherlock took off his leather gloves and replaced them with latex ones, "She's with me."

The man looked annoyed, "But who _is _she?"

"I said, she's with me." Sherlock repeated.

I began to pull on a pair of the blue coveralls too. The pair I was wearing was about three sizes too big, but it would do nonetheless.

After mine was on, I noticed that Sherlock wasn't wearing one.

"Aren't you gonna put one on?" I asked.

Sherlock shot me a look that basically said, '_Me? Of course not stupid.'_

"So where are we?" Sherlock asked the man.

"Upstairs."

I followed the two boys upstairs. We entered a circular room. It was completely bare of any furniture. In the middle of the room laid a woman dressed in a suit with a skirt… her entire outfit was hot pink.

"I can give you two minutes." The man said,

Sherlock shrugged, "May need longer."

The man sighed, "Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her."

It was silent as we all just kinda stared at the woman's corpse. There was a word etched into the wooden floorboards next to her: _Rache_

"Shut up." Sherlock suddenly blurted.

"I didn't say anything." The man replied.

"You were thinking. It's annoying."

I smirked as Sherlock suddenly knelt beside the corpse and started examining her.

"I'm Alice, by the way." I whispered to the man.

He smiled at me.

"Detective Lestrade. Nice to meet you"

We shook hands. A few more minutes passed.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock shrugged, "Not much."

He suddenly took off his latex gloves and began tapping on his cell phone.

"She's German."

The suddenly voice made me jump. I turned around. It was just Anderson leaning in the doorway.

He continued, "Rache. It's German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something."

Sherlock walked over to the door and slammed it in Anderson's face.

"Yes, thank you for your input."

He never once looked up from his phone's screen.

"So, she's German?" Lestrade asked uncertainly.

"Of course she's not. She's from out of town though. Intended to stay in London for one night before returning to Cardiff."

He put his phone in his pocket as he smiled smugly.

"So far, so obvious."

"Obvious?" I asked.

"What about the message though?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock ignored him.

"Alice Scotts, what do you think?"

"Of the message?"

"Of the body."

I gulped. What?

"Wait, no, we have a whole medical team right outside." Lestrade protested.

"They won't work with me." Sherlock said.

Lestrade sighed, "I'm breaking every rule letting _you_ in here."

"Yes, because you need me."

Lestrade stared at Sherlock for a moment.

"Yes I do. God, help me."

Sherlock turned back to me.

"Alice Scotts?"

I shook my head 'no', but he nodded his head 'yes'. I glanced at Lestrade.

"Oh, do as he says. Help yourself."

He turned to opened the door.

"Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes!" he called before closing the door again.

I uncertainly walked over to Sherlock and the body. I knelt next to Sherlock.  
>"Well?" Sherlock asked.<p>

"What am I doing here?" I whispered.

"Helping me make a point." Sherlock whispered back.

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent."

"Yeah, well, this is more fun."

"Fun? Sherlock, there's a woman lying dead."

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper."

"How?" I asked.

"You're a woman, she's a woman. Maybe you'll catch something I missed."

I rolled my eyes.

"Fine!" I leaned in close to the corpse and sniffed,

After a minute, I started speaking.

"Well, I can't smell any alcohol on her. She passed out, possibly choked on her own vomit. But there is no vomit. She could've had a seizure, but the way she's laying doesn't look like a seizure. Ummm, drugged herself?" I offered uncertainly.

"You know what it was. You've read the papers." Sherlock said.

"Wait, she's the fourth suicide?" I asked.

Lestrade interrupted us.

"Sherlock - two minutes, I said. I need anything you've got."

Sherlock stood up.

"Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Traveled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase."  
>"Suitcase?" Lestrade asked.<p>

"Suitcase, yes. She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married."

Lestrade scoffed, "Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up…"

Sherlock pointed to her left hand.

"Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who _does_ she remove her rings for? Clearly not _one_ lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple.  
>"That's brilliant." I said without thinking.<p>

Sherlock shot me a look.

"Sorry." I mumbled.

"Cardiff?" Lestrade asked.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock asked.

I glanced from Sherlock to Lestrade.

"It's not obvious to me."

Sherlock stared at Lestrade and me in shock.

"Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring."  
>I rolled my eyes as Sherlock turned back to the body.<p>

"Her coat, it's slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused: not just wind, _strong_ wind – too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have traveled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?

He showed us his cell phone. It had today's weather report on it.

"Cardiff."

I smiled, "That's amazing!"

Sherlock looked at me.

"Do you know you do that out loud?"

"Sorry, I'll shut up." I replied.

Sherlock smiled, "No it's fine."

"Why do you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade suddenly asked.

Sherlock spun around in a circle looking around the room.

"Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is."  
>"She was writing 'Rachel'?"<p>

"No, she was leaving an angry note in German," his voice dripped with sarcasm, "Of _course_ she was writing Rachel! No other word it can be. Question is why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"How do you know she had a suitcase?" Lestrade asked again.

Sherlock pointed down at the body.

"Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night."

Sherlock turned back to Lestrade.

"Now, where is it? What have you done with it?"

Lestrade sighed, "There wasn't a case."

Sherlock looked surprised.

"Say that again."

"There wasn't a case. There was never a suitcase."  
>Sherlock went running out of the room.<p>

"Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

Lestrade and I hurried after him. He was already halfway down the stairs.

"Sherlock, there was no case!  
>Sherlock stopped his decent down the stairs.<p>

"But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them."  
>"Right, yeah, thanks. <em>And?<em>"

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings – _serial_ killings."  
>He suddenly held up his hands in delight.<p>

"We've got ourselves a serial killer. I _love_ those. There's always something to look forward to."

"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade called down.  
>"Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case. So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car." Sherlock concluded.<p>

I shrugged, "She could have checked into a hotel, left her bag there.  
>"No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair, she color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking…" he stopped himself.<br>"What?" I asked.

"Oh… OH!" Sherlock shouted excitedly.

"Hey! What's going on? Tell me." I said.

"Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake." Sherlock began.

"We can't just wait!" Lestrade said.

"Oh, we're _done_ waiting! Look at her, really _look_! Houston, we _have_ a mistake. Get on to Cardiff. Find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!" he shouted as he began hurtling himself down the remaining steps.

"Of course, yeah – but what mistake?!" Lestrade screamed after him.  
>Sherlock shouted from downstairs, "<em>PINK!"<em>

I stood with Lestrade thinking 'what _the heck just happened_?'.

_"_Let's get on with it." Anderson finally said, breaking our silence,  
>Several people pushed passed me on their way back to the body. Lestrade wandered off leaving me all alone… forgotten by everyone.<p>

I made my way downstairs and pulled off the coveralls by the door. I wandered out back towards the police tape, looking for Sherlock.

"He's gone."

I turned around. It was Donovan.

"Who, Sherlock Holmes?" I asked.

"Yeah, he just took off. He does that."

I nodded.

"Is he coming back?  
>"Didn't look like it.<br>"Right, yeah… sorry where am I?" I asked.

"Brixton." Donovan replied.

Right. Brixton.

"Do you know where the nearest Tube station is?"  
>Sally looked me up and down.<p>

"Try the main road."

"Thanks!"

I ducked under the police tape.  
>"But you're not his friend."<p>

I stopped and turned back to the busy haired woman.

_"_He doesn't _have_ friends. So who _are_ you?" she continued.

I shrugged, "I'm nobody. I just met him."  
>"Okay, bit of advice then. Stay away from that guy."<p>

"Why?"

"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there." Donovan explained.

"Why would he do that?"

Donovan laughed, "Because he's a psychopath. And psychopaths get bored."  
>Suddenly, Lestrade's voice was heard from the house.<p>

"Donovan!"

Donovan turned around and called back.

"Coming!"

She started to back up, but she looked at me.

"Stay away from Sherlock Holmes."  
>With that, she hurried back towards the crime scene.<p>

I wandered around the main road for awhile. I couldn't find a Tube stop anywhere. As I passed a telephone box, the phone inside started to ring. I paused and looked at the box. Who would be calling it? After a moment, it stopped.

Before I could continue down the road, it started ringing again. I looked around. No one was going to answer it. I sighed and stepped into the telephone box. I hesitantly picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

A man began speaking.

"There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?  
>"Sorry, who's this?"<p>

"Do you see the camera, Miss Scotts?

I gulped. How did this man know my name? I turned in the direction he told me to and saw a security camera on the wall of a nearby building.

"Yeah, I see it." I confirmed.

"Watch."

The security camera slowly turned around, so it wasn't facing the telephone box I was in.

"There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?"

I glanced in the other direction until I saw the second camera.

"Yeah."

That camera turned away from me too,

_"_And finally, at the top of the building on your right."  
>I located the last security camera. It too turned away from me.<p>

"How are you doing this?" I asked.

"Get into the car, Miss Scotts."

A black limo pulled up by the curb next to the telephone box. The driver, a man, stepped out and opened the door to the backseat, waiting for me.

_"_I _would_ make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you."

The line went dead. I stared at the car for a few minutes. Finally I hung up the telephone and walked over to the car. I cautiously stepped inside the car. A few seconds after I stepped inside, the car pulled away.

There was a woman sitting beside me. Here eyes were glued on her Blackberry phone as she tapped on its screen furiously. She ignored me when I got in the car.

"Um, hi." I said awkwardly.

She looked up and smiled at me before staring back at her phone.

"Hi."

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Anthea."

I nodded.

"Is that your real name?"

"No." she said with a smile.

"Okay."

I sat there for a few seconds.

"I'm Alice."

She turned to look at me again.

"Yes, I know."

I nodded. Okay then.

"So, should I ask where are we going?"

"No." she replied cheerily.

Some time passed before the car stopped. It parked in a half-abandoned warehouse. When I stepped out of the car, I saw a man in a suit standing in the center of the room. He was half leaning on an umbrella as I walked up to him. He has neat, combed back hair and a crooked nose. There was a fold out chair in front of him.

_"_Have a seat, Alice."

It was the same man from the telephone.

"No." I said

I walked passed the chair.

"You know, you could've just called me on my cell." I offered, crossing my arms over my chest.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place."

The man eyed me up and down.

"You don't seem very afraid."

"Why should I be?" I snapped.

The man chuckled.

"I should've known better… from your _background_."

My breathing hitched.

"What do you mean?"

He chuckled again.

"Oh please, Miss. Scotts. I do my research. However, it was harder to find out anything about you."

I clenched my fists. All I wanted to do was punch this Umbrella Man in the jaw.

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

I smirked, "I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him yesterday."

My smile faded. Had I really only known the man one day?  
>"And since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"<p>

"Who _are_ you?" I asked.

"An interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met him. How many 'friends' do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."  
>"And what's that?" I questioned.<p>

He smiled, "An enemy."  
>"An <em>enemy?"<em>

"In _his_ mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his _arch_-enemy. He does love to be dramatic."

Suddenly, my cell phone began to buzz. I quickly checked it. The text read:

Baker Street. Come at once if convenient.  
>SH<p>

"I hope I'm not distracting you." The man said.  
>I glanced up at him, but kept my phone in my hand.<p>

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" the man continued.  
>"I could be wrong… but I think that's none of your business."<br>"It _could_ be." The man shrugged.

I scoffed, "It _really_ couldn't."

The man pulled a small notebook from his inside pocket. He opened to a page and began speaking again.

"If you _do_ move into, two hundred and twenty-one _B_ Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way."  
>He closed the notebook.<p>

I smiled, "Why?"

"Because you're not a wealthy woman."

"In exchange for what?" I demanded.

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel ... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to," he paused, "I worry about him constantly."  
>I scoffed, "I'm no snitch."<p>

The man gave me a look.

"We both know that's not true."

I just stared at him. _Why _did he know so much about me? What was so _special _about Sherlock Holmes?

"So, what do you think?" he asked.

My phone buzzed again. The new text read:

If inconvenient, come anyway.  
>SH<p>

"No." I said.

"But I haven't mentioned a figure."  
>"Don't bother."<p>

"You're very loyal, _very_ quickly…"  
>I cut him off, "No, I'm not. I'm just not interested."<p>

The man eyed me up and down again.

"Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"  
>"Who says I trust him?"<p>

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily." The man added.  
>I was silent for a moment. All I wanted to do was to get back to 221B and have Mrs. Hudson make me a cup of tea.<p>

"Are we done?" I asked quietly.

_"_You tell me."

I began to walk back to the limo.

"We're done." I called behind my shoulder.

"I assume you are still capable of some of your old… _skills_."

I stopped walking and turned back around.

"Stop, stop right now."

The man smiled.

"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but shouldn't he be warned to stay away from you?"

"Stop."

"You're running away. I know why, but does Sherlock know why?"

"Stop."

"Just like him, I know that you're lying about your paranoia. But does he see the truth?"

"You stop talking, right now!" I screamed.  
>I was close to tears. The man simply stared at me.<p>

"You miss it… Welcome back _Alice Scotts_."

The way he said my name made me cringe. That _was _my name. _My _name!

"We're done," I paused, my voice getting firmer, "and if you breathe a word of this to Sherlock Holmes, you will regret it."

The man nodded, "I know I would."

I began walking back to the limo.

"I'm to take you home." Anthea said.

Suddenly my phone buzzed again. The new text read:

Could be dangerous.  
>SH<p>

I smiled. Good. With that, I jumped back in the limo, heading back to 221B Baker Street.


	4. A Study In Pink: Part 4

As soon as the limo pulled up to 221B, I hopped out and rushed up to the apartment. When I entered the flat, I saw Sherlock. He was lying on the sofa. Both of his shirt sleeves were unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows. He had his left hand pressed firmly on his right forearm.

"What're you doing?" I asked.

He glanced up at me. He had a wild look in his eyes.

His voice was calm though, "Nicotine patch. Helps me think."

He showed me his right forearm, revealing three circle nicotine patches stuck on his skin.

"Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work." He continued.

"It's good news for breathing, though."

Sherlock scoffed, "Oh breathing. Breathing's boring."

"Are you really wearing three patches?" I asked.

"It's a three-patch job." He replied _matter-o-factly_ as he closed his eyes.

I nodded and walked farther into the apartment. I stood next to the couch, so I was looking down at my detective roommate.

"So, what'd you need? You texted me?"

After a few seconds, Sherlock reopened his eyes. He seemed to have had to remember about his texts.

"Oh yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?" he asked.

I just stared at him.

"My phone?" I asked slowly.

"Don't want to use mine. Always a chance that the number will be recognized. It's on the website." He explained.

"Mrs. Hudson's got a phone."

"Yes, she's downstairs. I tried shouting but she didn't hear me."

Seriously?

"_I_ was on the other side of London!" I exclaimed.

"There was no hurry." Sherlock replied calmly.

I clenched my jaw and looked at him. My eye was slightly twitching from rage. He could be so infuriating. After a moment I pulled my phone out of my pocket and handed it to him.

"Here."

He took it and held it in his hands.

"That's it? What, is this about the case?" I asked.

"Her case." Sherlock whispered.

"_Her _case?" I repeated.

Sherlock opened his eyes.

"Her suitcase, yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake.

"Okay, he took her case. _So_?" I asked.

Sherlock closed his eyes once more and began talking quietly to himself.

"It's no use, there's no other way. We'll just have to risk it."

His eyes snapped open.

"On my desk there's a number. I want you to send a text." He said.

"You brought me here to _send a_ _text_?" I demanded as calmly as I could.

He didn't seem concerned. "Text, yes. The number on my desk."

I didn't move. He turned his head and looked at me.

"You seem tense. Are you okay, Alice?"

"I just met a friend of yours?" I said, my voice filled with annoyance.

"A _friend_?" Sherlock asked, taken aback.

"An enemy." I corrected.

Sherlock's face brightened.

"Oh!" he paused, "Which one?"

"You _arch_-enemy, according to him."

Sherlock eyed me up and down suspiciously.

"Did he off you money to spy on me?"

"Yes."

"Did you take it?"

"No."

Sherlock pouted, "Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

"Who is he?" I asked.

He whispered, "The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not my problem." He practically hollered as he said, "On my desk, the number!"

I turned around and snatched the piece of paper from his desk with the number. It was on a luggage tag.

"Jennifer Wilson?" I read from the tag.

"Yes, the dead woman. That's not important though. Just enter the number."

I sighed and began tapping on my phone's screen. Not 30 seconds had passed when Sherlock spoke again.

"Are you doing it?"

"No, I'm ordering a pizza!" I replied, sarcastically.

Sherlock stared at me in confusion.

"What do I need to text?" I asked once I was finished.

"These words exactly, 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.'"

I stopped tapping.

"You blacked out?"

"What? No. No!"

Sherlock threw his legs over the sofa and stood up. He began walking towards the two armchairs, stepping on the coffee table in the process.

"Type and send it. Quickly." He instructed.

I finished the text and pressed send.

"K, all set." I said.

Right as I said that, Sherlock pulled a small, hot pink suitcase from behind one of the armchairs and set it on the table separating the two armchairs.

I stared at it in horror, "Wait, is that the pink lady's bag?"

"Yes, obviously."

I was silent as I looked from Sherlock to the suitcase. Sherlock noticed and glanced back at me.

"Oh, perhaps I should mention, _I _didn't kill her."

I shrugged, "I never said you did."

Sherlock locked eyes with me, "Why not? Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption."

To be honest, it wouldn't bother me if Sherlock was the killer. Sure it would surprise me, but I wouldn't mind.

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?" I asked.

Sherlock smirked cheekily.

"Now and then, yes."

I sat in the armchair opposite the '_psychopath'_.

"Okay, how'd you get this?"

"By looking."

"Where?"

"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention to themselves – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely – so obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip." He explained.

"Pink. You got _all_ that because you realized the case would be pink?" I asked.

"Well, it _had _to be pink… obviously."

"Of course, why did I think of that?" I asked mockingly.

Sherlock didn't even pause.

"Because you're an idiot."

I stared at him with my eyebrows raised. He glanced at me.

"No, no, no, don't look like that. Practically everyone is." He tried to reassure me.  
>I nodded unconvinced.<p>

"Now, look. Do you see what's missing?"  
>"No, tell me." I said.<p>

Sherlock smiled, "Her phone. Where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We know she had one – that's her number there. You just texted it."

"Maybe she left it at home." I offered.  
>Sherlock chuckled. His chuckle basically said, '<em>no stupid girl'<em>.

"She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She _never_ leaves her phone at home."  
>I glance down at my phone that was in my lap.<p>

"Why did I just send that text?" I asked.

_"_Well, the question is, where is her phone _now_?"

"She could have lost it."

I knew I was dead wrong, but it was worth a try.

"Yes, or…?" Sherlock said.

I sighed, "The murderer, you think the murderer still has the phone."

"Maybe she left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone." Sherlock concluded.

I had to laugh. This whole thing was so insane.  
>"Sorry, what are we doing? Did I just text a murderer?! What good will <em>that<em> do?"  
>As soon as I said that, my phone began to buzz. I check the caller ID, but it was withheld. I shot Sherlock a look.<p>

_ "_A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just _found_ that phone they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer would panic."  
>As soon as my phone stopped buzzing, Sherlock jumped up, went to the door, and began putting on his coat.<p>

"Have you talked to Lestrade?" I asked, following him

"Four people are dead. There isn't time to talk to the police."

"So why are you talking to _me_?" I asked.

Sherlock stopped in the doorframe and turned back around to face me, "Mrs Hudson took my skull."

"So I'm basically filling in for your precious skull?"  
>"Relax, you're doing fine." Sherlock said with a wink.<p>

I watched him as he pulled his scarf on.

"What, you want me to come with you?" I asked.

I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so…"  
>I had to smile. This whole day was just so insane. He was insane.<p>

"Sergeant Donovan, she said you get off on this. You enjoy it." I mentioned.

"And I said 'dangerous', and here you are." He added.

With that he headed out the door.

"Damn it!" I screamed as I rushed after him.

Out on the main sidewalk, I managed to keep up with Sherlock as he walked. His long legs made him take long strides.

"So, we're going to Northumberland Street to meet the killer?" I asked

"You catch on quick, American."

"You actually think that the murderer's stupid enough to go there?"

Sherlock smirked, "No, I think he's _brilliant _enough. I love the brilliant ones. They're always so desperate to get caught. The appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, Alice. It needs an audience."

I smiled, "It's true.

"This is his hunting ground, right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go… Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

I thought for a moment.

"I don't know," I began listing off things, "Um, librarians, school teachers, people on children's TV shows…"

Sherlock shot me a look.

I laughed, "What?"

He shrugged, "Hungry?"

A few blocks later, I followed Sherlock into a small restaurant. It was directly next to the main road. He sat down at a table next to a large window, so he could look out and watch the people walk by. I sat down across from him.

"Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it." Sherlock instructed.

We were literally at the intersection where the road went either left or right. There was no straight.

Suddenly, a man walked up to our table.

"Sherlock! Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. All on the house for you and your date." he greeted happily.

He was Italian, with short cute black hair and a thick mustache. He was dressed in an apron, so I assumed he also did most of the cooking here.

"Do you want to eat?" Sherlock asked me.

I ignored him.

"Thank you, but I'm not his date." I corrected the man.  
>The man wasn't listening, "Oh, look at her, so modest… This man got me off a murder charge."<p>

"This is Angelo." Sherlock said to me.

I smiled at Angelo.

"Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking."

"He cleared my name." Angelo gushed.

"I cleared it a _bit_."

Angelo looked at me, "But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."  
>"You <em>did<em> go to prison." Sherlock corrected.

Angelo smiled, "I'll get a candle for this table. It's more romantic."

"I'm not his date!" I called after him as he left us.

I sighed. Sherlock was looking out the window.

"You may as well eat. We might have a long wait." He said.

Right then, Angelo came back with a candle and placed it between Sherlock and I. he gave me a thumbs up before leaving again.

I sighed and picked up the menu. Oh, boy.

We had been in the little restaurant for over an hour. In front of me was an empty plate which used to have food one it. Sherlock was still looking out the window. He was drumming his fingers on the table.

"People don't _have_ arch-enemies." I finally said.

It took a moment before Sherlock finally tore his gaze away from the window.

"I'm sorry?"

"In real life. There _are_ no arch-enemies in real life. It just doesn't happen."

Sherlock began looking out the window again. He seemed bored with me.

"Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull."

"So who did I meet?"

"What do real people have, then, in their 'real lives'?" Sherlock asked.

I began to list them all off, "Friends, people they know, people they like, people they don't like, girlfriends, boyfriends…"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Yes, well, as I was saying – dull."  
>"So you don't have a girlfriend?" I asked.<p>

"Girlfriend? No, not really me area." Sherlock replied

I nodded.

"Do you have a boyfriend then?" I paused, "Which is fine by the way."

Sherlock looked at me again.

"I know it's fine."

"So, which do you have, a girlfriend or boyfriend?" I pushed.

"No."

He looked back out the window.

"Okay, so you're unattached like me. That's good.

Sherlock glanced at me suspiciously.

"_Alice_, um, I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any…"

What the what? Haha… no!

I cut him off, "No, no, no."

He tried to speak again. I stopped him.

"Just no."

He stared at me and nodded.

"Good. Thank you."

We were both quiet for a few minutes.

"Okay, time to use that American brain of yours. Think. Who else do you just automatically trust? No second thought." he asked.

I looked with him out the window for a few seconds.

"Okay, um," I thought for a second, "Waiters, cooks, old ladies who work in those Christmas shops…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Umm, cab drivers?" I offered.

Sherlock smirked.

"Very good. Now look across the street."

I looked where he was looking. There was a cab parked on the side of the road across the street. It was just sitting there.

"Taxi. Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out. Why a taxi? Oh, that's clever. _Is_ it clever? _Why_ is it clever?"

He asked the last bit to himself more than me.

"So that's him?"

"Don't stare." Sherlock said.

"But _you're_ staring."

"Well we can't _both _stare!" Sherlock insisted.

Suddenly, he got to his feet and pulled on his trench coat. I hurried after him as he went running like a maniac into the traffic towards the cab. The cab began to pull away from the curb.

"What are you doing?" I demanded as soon as I stopped next to Sherlock on the opposite side of the road.

"Come on!" he shouted.

He began to jog off.

"I've got the cab number." I offered.

"Good for you!" he called back to me as he continued jogging.

As we ran to find the cab, Sherlock began mumbling directions.

"Right turn, one way, road works, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights."

I chased Sherlock up stairs, through alleys, up fire escapes, and across rooftops. He never slowed down one bit. We also nearly got hit by about seven cars and ran into at least five people as we ran like maniacs through the streets of London.

"Come on Alice, we're losing him!" Sherlock hollered at one point.

As we ran out of one alley, I saw the cab. If we had been there five seconds earlier, we would've been able to stop it.

"Ah no!" Sherlock cried out.

He looked around frantically.

"This way!" he instructed.

I rolled my eyes as I continued to hurry after him. We ran for a few more minutes before he led me out of another alley. He ran into the traffic… and right in front of the cab. I was convinced he was going to get run over, but the cab stopped.

"Police! Open her up!" Sherlock began lying as he went to the passenger's seat.

He tugged open the door and stared at the passenger.

"No." Sherlock said quietly between gasps for air.

He leaned down to get a good look at the passenger.

"Teeth, tan… what? Californian?" he asked.

The man inside nodded, "L.A., Santa Monica. I just arrived."

He was American. Sherlock nodded and straightened himself, grimacing. I glanced at the man's luggage. There was an LAX and a LHR tag. Yep, American.

"It's probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?" Sherlock continued.

"Sorry, are you guys the police?" the man inside asked.

Sherlock sloppily flashed a police ID badge.

"Everything all right?" he asked.

The man smiled, "Yeah."

Sherlock gave him a thumbs up.

"Welcome to London!"

Sherlock began walking back to the sidewalk.

"Um, any problems just let us know." I added with a wink before slamming the cab door shut.

I hurried to the sidewalk where Sherlock was and the cab continued on it's way.

"Basically just a cab that happened to slow down?" I asked him.

Sherlock nodded, "Basically."

"So, not the murderer?"

"_Not_ the murderer, no." Sherlock said, he was still having a hard time catching his breath.

I gestured to the police ID.

"Where did you get that anyway?"

"Lestrade. I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one, I've got plenty at the flat."

I laughed. Sherlock Holmes had to be the most eccentric person ever.

"What?" he asked.

"'Welcome to London'?" I asked.

He smiled and straightened himself back up again to his full height.

"Alright. Ready?" he asked.

I nodded and we started running like hell back to 221B, the adrenaline still pumping through our veins.


	5. A Study In Pink: Part 5

When we arrived back at 221B, we stood in the entry way for a few minutes to catch our breath again.

"Why aren't we back at the restaurant?" I asked.

"Oh, they can keep an eye out. It was a log shot anyway."

"So what are we doing here?"

"Oh, just passing the time," he paused, "and a point."

I gave him a confused look.

"Mrs. Hudson! Miss Scotts _will _be taking the room upstairs." He called.

I smiled, "Says who?"

"Me." He said with a wink before he headed up the stairs.

I smiled and followed him up to the flat. Suddenly, Mrs. Hudson hurried out of our flat and down the stairs.

"Sherlock, what have you done?" she asked sadly.

Sherlock stared at her confusedly, "Mrs. Hudson?"

"Upstairs." She said.

Sherlock rushed up the stairs. I cautiously came in behind him. When I got into the flat, Lestrade and other police officers were everywhere.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked.

"Well I knew you'd find the case. I'm not stupid." Lestrade replied.

"You can't just break into my flat." Sherlock protested.

"And you can't withhold evidence. And I didn't _break _into your flat."

"Well what do you call this?"

Lestrade smirked at his other officers, "It's a drugs bust

I turned my attention to Sherlock. He glanced at me. He looked embarrassed.

"You're a druggie?" I asked.

He nodded, "Sorry to disappoint you."

I shook my head smiling, "Really?"

"Shut up."

"You?"

"Shut up!" he said angrily.

Out of all people I'd expect to shoot themselves up with drugs… I'd never have guessed Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock turned back to Lestrade.

"I'm not your sniffer dog.

"No, Anderson's my sniffer dog."

He nodded towards the kitchen. We all looked and there was Anderson. He gave Sherlock a wave.

"I volunteered." He said smugly.

"They _all_ did. They're not strictly speaking _on_ the drugs squad, but they're very keen." Lestrade added.

Suddenly, Donovan walked over with a large jar filled with… eyeballs?

"Are these _human _eyes?" she asked.

"Put those back!" Sherlock demanded.  
>"They were in the microwave!"<p>

Sherlock sighed, "It's an experiment."

Donovan shrugged and walked back into the kitchen. Lestrade turned back to us.

"You could help us properly. I'll stand them down." Lestrade offered.

"This is childish." Sherlock said as he paced angrily.

"Well, I'm _dealing_ with a child. Sherlock, this is _our_ case. I'm letting you in, but you do _not_ go off on your own. Clear?"

Sherlock glared at him, "Oh, what, so-so-so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?"  
>Lestrade cross his arms.<p>

"It stops being pretend if they find anything."

Sherlock looked like he was about to explode from frustration.

"I am clean!"

"Is your flat? All of it?"

"I don't even smoke!" Sherlock whined unbuttoning his sleeve and showing Lestrade his patches.

Lestrade started to unbutton his own sleeve.

"Neither do I." he said, showing Sherlock his own patches.

Sherlock gave Lestrade an almost annoyed look as he and his friend both readjusted their sleeves.

"So let's work together. We've found Rachel."

"Who is she?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."

Sherlock frowned.

"Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"

Suddenly, Anderson interrupted.

"Never mind _that. _We found the case."

He pointed to the pink case that had now been brought into the living room.

He continued, "According to _someone_, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath."

Oh how words could not describe how much I hated Anderson.

Sherlock looked at Anderson in despair.

"I'm not a psychopath, Anderson," he paused, "I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do you research!"

I smirked as Sherlock turned back to Lestrade.

"You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. _I _need to question her." He begged.

"She's dead."

Sherlock looked just as shocked as I did.

"Sorry, she's _dead_?" I asked.

"How, when, and why? Is there a connection? There _has _to be!" Sherlock said, beginning to pace again.

Lestrade shrugged, "Well, I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago."  
>I looked back and forth between Sherlock and Lestrade. This couldn't be right… could it?<p>

"No, that's ... that's not right. How ... Why would she do that? _Why?" _Sherlock mumbled, trying to make sense of it all.

"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments? Yup, sociopath! I'm seeing it now." Anderson blurted in.

Sherlock shot him a death glare.

"She didn't _think_ about her daughter. She _scratched_ her name on the floor with her _fingernails_. She was dying. It took effort. It would have hurt."  
>"You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he <em>makes<em> them take it. Well, maybe he ... I don't know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow." I offered.

Sherlock shrugged, "Yeah, but that was _ages_ ago. Why would she still be upset?"  
>Everyone (me included) stopped and just stared at the detective. He noticed and looked around at us.<p>

"Not good?" he asked.

I crossed my arms over my chest, "Nope."

Sherlock took a step closer to me so we were only a few inches apart,

"Yeah, but if you were dying ... if you'd been murdered: in your very last few seconds what would you say?  
>I shrugged, "No idea."<p>

Sherlock groaned.

"Oh, use your imagination!"

He continued to pace in front of me.

"Yeah, but if you were clever, _really_ clever! Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers, she _was_ clever. She's trying to _tell_ us something."  
>Suddenly, Mrs. Hudson ran into the flat.<p>

"Isn't the doorbell working? Your taxi's here, Sherlock." She said.

Sherlock waved her off, " I didn't order a taxi. Go away."

Mrs. Hudson looked around the half-trashed apartment.

"Oh, dear. They're making such a mess. What are they looking for?"

"It's a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson." I explained.

She started to panic.

"But they're just for my hip. They're herbal soothers." She insisted.

I face-palmed.

"Shut up, everybody, shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off."  
>Sherlock's sudden outburst made me jump.<p>

"What? My _face_ is?!" Anderson scoffed.

"Everybody quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back." I ordered.

"Oh, for God's sake!"

"Your _back_, now!" I growled.  
>I took a step towards him. He put his hands up in defense and turned the other direction.<p>

"Come on, think. Quick!" Sherlock said to himself.  
>"What about your taxi?" Mrs. Hudson asked.<p>

"MRS HUDSON!" Sherlock screamed.

She quickly turned around and scuttled down the stairs. I had never seen an older lady move to quickly.

Suddenly a smile appeared on Sherlock's face, "Oh. Ah! She was clever, clever, yes! She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead. Do you see, do you get it? She didn't _lose_ her phone, she never lost it. She _planted_ it on him."

He began to explain.

"When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer."

"But how?" Lestrade asked.  
>"What do you mean, 'how'? RACHEL!" Sherlock exclaimed excitedly.<p>

We all just stared at him.

"Don't you see? RACHEL!" he repeated.

I shrugged. I had no idea where he was going with this."

"Oh, look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be _so_ relaxing," he paused, "Rachel is not a name."

"Then what is it?" I asked.

"Alice, on the luggage, there's a label. Email address."

I picked up the label from the coffee table and began to read.

"Um, .uk"

Sherlock was sat at the desk and began to type it into his laptop.

"Oh, I've been too slow. She didn't have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it's a smartphone, it's email enabled. So there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address and all together now, the password is?" he began.

"Rachel." I breathed.  
>"So we can read her emails. So what?" Anderson asked.<p>

Sherlock turned to Anderson, "Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the IQ of the whole street!" he turned back to the screen, "We can do much more than just read her emails. It's a smartphone, it's got GPS, which means if you lose it you can locate it online. She's leading us directly to the man who killed her." Sherlock said.

"Unless he got rid of it." Lestrade added.

I smiled, "We know he didn't."  
>The page began to load. Mrs. Hudson hurried back into the room.<p>

_ "_Sherlock, dear. This taxi driver…"

Sherlock got to his feet and walked towards the door.

"Mrs. Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?" he asked.

I sat in Sherlock's seat and watched the website load.

"We need to get vehicles, get a helicopter," I heard Sherlock say behind me, "We're gonna have to move fast. This phone battery won't last for ever."

"We'll just have a map reference, not a name." Lestrade said next.

I continued to wait for the stupid website to load. I sighed.

"It's a start! It narrows it down from just anyone in London. It's the first proper lead that we've had." Sherlock said.

Suddenly, the screen finished and a map appeared with the location of the phone.

"Sherlock…" I said.

Sherlock was behind me in a second, staring at the screen.

"What is it? Quickly, where?" he asked.

I quickly looked for a way to find the address.

"It's… here. It's in 221B Baker Street." I said slowly.

Sherlock straightened up.

"How can it be here? _How_?"

Lestrade shrugged, "Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere."

"What, and I didn't notice it? _Me_? I didn't notice?"

I turned around in the chair.

"Anyway, we texted him and he called back." I added.  
>Lestrade nodded and turned back to his other officers.<p>

"Okay, guys, we're also looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim."  
>Suddenly, I noticed the new man in the doorway. He was an older man with white hair, glasses, and a large nose. He was wearing a light grey cabbie hat and was dressed in comfortable clothing.<p>

I shrugged. It must've been one of Lestrade's guys. That's when I noticed Sherlock. He had his eyes fixed on the man.

"Sherlock, you okay?" I asked.

Sherlock nodded, but he wasn't acting right. He seemed to be in some sort of trance.

"What? Yeah, yeah, I-I'm fine."

"So how could the phone be here?" I asked.

He shrugged, "Don't know. Why don't you try it again?"

I nodded.

"Kk."

I turned back to the screen and tried to refresh the page. I noticed that Sherlock was starting to leave the flat.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

Sherlock glanced down at me.

"Fresh air. Just popping outside for a moment. Won't be long."

I frowned, "You sure you're okay?"

Sherlock was already halfway out the door.

"I'm fine!" he called behind his shoulder.

I watched him leave the flat. What was he up to?

The webpage still claimed that the phone was at 221B when it refreshed (just a few seconds after Sherlock left). I shrugged and pulled out my cell phone. It still had the number in it. I tried calling it.

As the phone rang, I walked over to the window and looked out at the sidewalk. There was Sherlock… only he was getting into a cab. After a few moments, the cab pulled away from the curb and off down the road.

"He just got in a cab." I whispered.

I turned to Lestrade,

"It's Sherlock. He just drove off in a cab."

"I told you, he does that." Donovan replied.

She turned to Lestrade.

"He left again."

She walked back into the kitchen.

"We're wasting our time!" she yelled.

The phone continued to ring, waiting for someone to pick it up in my ear.

"I'm calling the phone. It's ringing now." I told Lestrade.

He nodded, "If it's ringing, it's not here. Try the search again."

I nodded and sat back at the desk and started checking again.

Donovan walked back into the main room, "Does it matter? Does _any _of it matter? You know, he's just a lunatic, and he'll_ always _let you down, and you're wasting your time. _All _out time."

I glanced behind my shoulder and saw Lestrade sigh in defeat.

"Okay, everybody. We're done here." He admitted.

It took everyone a good twenty minutes to pack up and leave the flat. Of course they left it trashed. I was still lazily sitting in the chair. The page was taking _forever _to load. I sighed and started pressing multiple times on the refresh button on the computer.

I stood up, prepared to go look for Sherlock. Suddenly, the computer beeped. I turned around. It had finished loading. The screen slowly started to zoom in on the phone's location. It was no longer 221B. I quickly scribbled the address on a spare piece of paper and headed to the door.

I took three steps before I tripped on a randomly tossed drawer and toppled onto the floor, landing right next to the couch. I sighed and glanced under the couch. That's when I noticed it.

There was a small piece of loose string underneath the sofa. I tried pulling it out to the couch wouldn't start to fray… but instead a small compartment opened up on the underside. I hesitantly reached inside and pulled out… a gun?

I sat up and examined it. It was a small hand gun. Sherlock must've kept it hidden in the flat incase of burglaries or an emergency… like this.

I smirked and quickly checked to make sure it was loaded. It was. I jumped to my feet and stashed the gun in my jeans. Then I ran down the stairs and out of the building, to the Tube.

Two Tube transfers and a whole lot of running later, I finally arrived at the proper Tube stop. I ran out and down the main road. Just a block away was Roland-Kerr College… AKA where the murderer was with our pink lady's phone.

There was only one problem though. There were two buildings…and the map wasn't specific enough to tell me which one it was in. I sighed and picked the right building, running to the doors.

I ran through the empty classrooms and hallways. Each of the buildings had at least twenty floors, and it was really killing me.

"Sherlock!" I called as I ran through the hallways,

I yanked open several doors.

"Sherlock?"

I finally saw one open door at the end of the hallway on the tenth floor. I burst into the room. That's when I realized… I was in the wrong building.

I ran to the window. Across the way, in the other building was Sherlock. He was with the cabbie from doorway at the flat. Each man was holding a pill. My eyes widen with worry.

"Sherlock!" I screamed in terror as he moved the pill closer to his mouth.

Before I even had time to process what I was doing, I had pulled open the window in front of me and had the gun out.

It had been almost a year since I'd shot a gun, but I still remembered.. I aimed and fired. It smashed through the glass on the other side of the building, hitting the cabbie in the chest.

I watched as Sherlock flinched and fell to the ground, worried there would be more shots. I watched him rise to his feet. I watched him look down at the dying man below him. He was yelling. I couldn't make it out, but he was angry.

I didn't stay for very long. Maybe five minutes overall. I then bolted from the college building. Someone would've heard the shot, and Lestrade would be on his way.

I waited in an alley, across from the college until the police cars and ambulance arrived. I then slowly made my way to the police tape.

I saw Sherlock was sitting in the ambulance, talking to Lestrade. He seemed to be angry over the shock blanket that was wrapped around him.

I stopped when I reached the police tape. I didn't pass it. I just waited. I could faintly make out what Sherlock and Lestrade were saying (with Sherlock practically yelling as he spoke).

"So, the shooter. No sign?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade nodded, "Cleared off before we got 'ere. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him but got nothing to go on."

I smirked. I had gotten away.  
>"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Sherlock said.<p>

My smile faded. Did he know?

Sherlock explained, "The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon. That's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of either military service or from a rough background. Possibly they were involved in some gang activity even."

Suddenly, Sherlock locked eyes with me. He gave me a look that said '_you?_'. I shrugged.  
>"Actually, do you know what? Ignore me." He told Lestrade as he began walking towards me.<p>

"Sorry?"

He stopped walking.

"Ignore all of that. It's just the… the shock talking."

"Where're you going?"

"I just need to talk about th-the rent."

"But I've still got questions for you!" Lestrade said.

Sherlock turned around. He looked irritated.

"Oh, what _now_? I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket!"

Lestrade gave him a look.

Sherlock shrugged, "_And_ I just caught you a serial killer… more or less."  
>"Okay. We'll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go." Lestrade said.<p>

Sherlock hurried over to me.

Once he was in front of me, he said, "Where did you learn to shoot like that?'

"I don't know what you're talking about."

I tried to hide my smirk. He stared at me.

"What did you say your job in New York was again?"

"I didn't."  
>I shrugged.<p>

"It was a good shot though. I wonder who it was?" I said trying to change the subject.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, of course I'm all right."

"Well, you _have_ just killed a man."

"That wasn't me." I lied.

Sherlock gave me a look.

"But he wasn't a very _nice_ man." I added.

Sherlock chuckled.

"No. No, he wasn't really, was he?"

"And frankly a bloody awful cabbie."

"That's true. He _was_ a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here!"

We both laughed. I suddenly stopped myself and whacked Sherlock in the arm.

"Stop! Stop, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene! Stop it!

"You're the one who shot him. Don't blame me." Sherlock smirked.

"Keep your voice down!" I whispered.

We began to walk away from the crime scene. Sherlock tossed the shock blanket into an open police car window.

"You were gonna take that damn pill weren't you?" I asked.

"Course I wasn't. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up." Sherlock replied

"No you didn't. It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot." I smiled.

Sherlock smiled back at me.

"Dinner?" he asked.  
>"Starving."<p>

"End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese stays open 'til two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle."  
>As he talked, ahead of us, a black limo pulled up and the Umbrella Man from earlier got out.<p>

"Sherlock. That's him. That's the man I was talking to you about." I said.

Sherlock was staring at the man as he walked closer to us.

"I know exactly who that it." Sherlock said as he walked to meet him halfway.

The two stopped and looked at each other for a few minutes.

"So, another case cracked. How very public spirited ... though that's never really your motivation, is it?" the man started.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked.

"As ever, I'm concerned about you."

"Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern'."

"Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no!" Sherlock said, faking surprise.

"We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer ... and you know how it always upset Mummy."

I frowned. Wait, mummy?

"_I_ upset her? Me?"

The man glowered at Sherlock.

"It wasn't _me_ that upset her, Mycroft." Sherlock continued,

"No, no, wait. Mummy? Who's Mummy?" I cut in.

"Mother… our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft." Sherlock said.

My eyes widen. I look back and forth between the man, Mycroft, and Sherlock. Brothers?

Sherlock continued talking, "Putting on weight again?  
>"Losing it, in fact." Mycroft snapped.<p>

"So he's your _brother_?!" I asked.

Sherlock scoffed, "Of _course_ he's my brother."  
>"So he's not some weird criminal?" I asked.<p>

Sherlock shrugged, "Close enough."

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"For goodness' sake. I occupy a minor position in the British government."

"He _is_ the British government, when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis." Sherlock corrected.

Mycroft sighed.

"Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic." Sherlock said.

With that he headed in the opposite direction from his brother.

As I walked passed Mycroft, he whispered in my ear, "Nice shot. You've still got it."

I glared at him and shot him the middle finger and I hurried after Sherlock.

"Good night Miss _Scotts_." He called after me.

Sherlock didn't even pause to wait for me.

"So, this Chinese place." I said when I caught up.

"Mmm! I can always predict the fortune cookies." Sherlock insisted.

I smiled, "No, you can't."

"Almost can."

He was silent for a minute.

"There's just one more thing I don't understand. Your paranoia. I know it's fake, but you're rubbish at faking it." Sherlock said.

I shrugged, "Who said I was faking it."

Sherlock suddenly smiled.

"What are you all smiley about?" I asked.

"Moriarty."

"What's Moriarty?" I asked.

Sherlock shrugged.

"I've absolutely _no_ idea."

With that we continued on our way to the Chinese restaurant. I think I was going to like being this sociopath's flatmate.


	6. The Blind Banker: Part 1

I sighed as I walked into the main entryway or 221B Baker Street. I tossed my large purse to the side and leaned back against the door. I had just gotten back from the supermarket… AKA _Hell_.

After a few minutes I composed myself, slung my purse back over my shoulder, and walked upstairs to my shared flat.

When I walked in, Sherlock was sitting casually in his black leather armchair, reading a book. He was so lazy. He rarely left the house, and when he did, he was always dragging me around to the weirdest places and making me run everywhere.

I glanced around at the flat. It was nice and clean… it was too clean. Something happened while I was away, I just knew it.

"You took your time." Sherlock commented, not looking up from his book.

I walked into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water from the sink.

"Yeah, I just goy back from Hell."

Sherlock still didn't look up at me.

"That's nice."

I rolled my eyes and took a large gulp of water.

"I didn't get the groceries." I added.

"What? Why not?"

He had abandoned his book and was looking at me now.

"Because I had a screaming-match at Sainsbury with the self-checkout machine!" I explained.

Sherlock smirked with amusement.

"You had a screaming-match… with a _machine_?" he asked, trying to hide his smile.

I nodded and took another swig of water.

"Yeah. It just kinda sat there and I shouted abuse at it," I paused, "Do you have any cash?"

"Take my card." Sherlock replied.

I grabbed his wallet off of the kitchen counter and began rummaging through it, in search of his card.

"You could always go yourself, you know. You've been sitting there all morning. You haven't moved an inch since I left."

Sherlock's expression suddenly changed as if he was hiding something. I knew he was, I just honestly didn't care what it was. How much trouble could he have _possibly_ gotten into in the two hours I was gone?

"So, what happened about that case you were offered? The Jaria Diamond?" I asked.

"Not interested. I sent them a message"

I finally found a card I could use from the wallet and pocketed it. That's when I noticed the deep cut in our wooden counter top. It was _definitely _not there when I left. I ran my finger along the cut and sighed. There was no hope in fixing it.

"Holmes." I muttered.

As I walked back into the main room, I saw Sherlock try to subtly kick a sword farther underneath his chair. A _sword_. An _actual_ sword.

I looked from the sword to Sherlock. He just gave me an innocent smile.

"Ugh, I'll be back." I mumbled as I headed out of the flat for the second time that day.

I got back to the flat about an hour and a half later. There were tons of bags piled up in my arms. I managed to waddle up the stairs and open the door.

When I walked in, Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen counter, a laptop in front of him. I knew he had no intention of helping me. He didn't even look at me.

"Don't worry about me. I can manage." I said sarcastically before dropping the pile on the counter in front of my flatmate.

I had to take a double take. I could've sworn he was on _my _laptop… wait, he was on _my _laptop.

"Is that my computer?" I asked.

Sherlock was taping furiously on the keyboard. He looked irritated.

"Of course. Mine was in the bedroom."

"You couldn't be bothered to get _up_?" I asked.

He shrugged and continued typing away.

"Wait, how'd you figure out my password?"

Sherlock looked up at me. He was definitely annoyed. He turned the laptop towards me. I smiled. My poor sociopath hadn't even gotten pass the log in screen.

"Aww, couldn't figure it out?" I teased.

He rubbed his temples and sighed.

"Just _please _let me get on. I just needed it for two seconds."

I smiled and began to type in my password.

"How long have you been sitting here like this?" I asked when I was done typing.

He sighed, "An hour."

I laughed in delight.

"You honestly couldn't figure it out? Didn't you read my password hint?"

"You password hint is 'something old, something new, something blue', so no, I very much indeed did _not _figure it out."

Now with full access to my laptop, he went online and began to search for his website. I sat across from him. There was a stack of mail on the edge of the counter. I picked it up and began shuffling through.

'_Bill…bill…bill…bill.'_ I thought to myself.

"I need a job." I sighed.

"I thought you had a job. At that video shop… um, HMV?" Sherlock asked.

I leaned on the counter on my elbows.

"I did, until the Tragic Incident of the Falling DVD Shelves."

Sherlock looked up at me.

"Is that why you were so down two weeks ago?" he asked.

I nodded.

"You said it was because you stubbed your toe on one of the stairs coming up. What have you been doing when you go to '_work_'?" he asked.

I bit my bottom lip.

"I've mostly been helping my friend out at her job at Marks and Spencer."

Sherlock looked back at the screen.

"You have _friends_?"

His voice was filled with disgust.

"Yes actually." I replied.

"You've only lived in London for five months and have a sociopath for a flatmate. What friends could you possibly have?"

"For your information, this _friend _complimented me on my Hufflepuff shirt, and we had a very _rousing _conversation about Draco Malfoy."

Sherlock closed my laptop's lid.

"Oh please, don't tell me about your fantasies of fictional book wizards. I've had enough."

I rolled my eyes as he put on his gloved. He winked at me before heading out of the flat. I hurried after him

"So, where are we going?" I asked.

"I need to go to the bank."

Tower 42, Old Broad Street. That's where Sherlock brought me. The place wasn't too far from my old flat back on Old Street. Maybe a block or two away.

I followed Sherlock upstairs and up the escalators to the upper levels of the building. He walked up to the receptionist.

"Sherlock Holmes."

The receptionist smiled.

About twenty minutes later, we were being led to an office on one of the very top floors of the bank. The room we walked into had the name _Sebastian Wilkes _on the door. As soon as we entered, we were greeted by a man wearing a business suit.

"Sherlock Holmes!" the man, apparently Sebastian, said, shaking Sherlock's hand.

"Sebastian."

Sherlock was trying his hardest to look pleased to see the man. He had his fake smile on and everything.

"Howdy, buddy. How long's it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?" Sebastian asked.

Sherlock looked back at me.

"This is my _friend_, Alice Scotts."

Sebastian scoffed, "Friend?

"Colleague." Sherlock corrected.

"Well, I wouldn't mind being friends with this one. Nice to meet you Alice." Sebastian said.

Now it was my turn to fake smile. I already wasn't too fond of this Sebastian character. Sebastian gestured for Sherlock and I to take a seat in the chairs in front of his desk.

"Do you need anything? Coffee, water?" he asked.

I shook my head 'no'.

"So, you're doing well. You've been abroad a lot." Sherlock said.

Sebastian shrugged, "Well, some."

"Flying all the way round the world twice in a month?"

I glanced at Sherlock in confusion. _What_? Sebastian just laughed.

"Right. You're doing that thing."

Sebastian looked at me.

"We were at Uni together. This guy here had a trick he used to do."

"It's not a trick." Sherlock commented quietly.

"He could look at you and tell you your whole life story."

I nodded, "Yeah, I know."

"Put the wind up everybody. We hated him."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sherlock bite the inside of his lip as he looked down at the floor. He looked hurt.

"You'd come down to breakfast in the Formal Hall and this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night." Sebastian chuckles.

Sherlock sighed quietly, "I simply observed."

"Go on, enlighten me. Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world. You're quite right. How could you tell? You're gonna tell me there was, um, a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan."

I weakly smiled to make him feel better.

"No, I…" Sherlock began.

Sebastian cut him off, "Maybe it was the mud on my shoes!"

"I was just chatting with your secretary outside. _She_ told me." Sherlock replied.

That was a lie. We hadn't said a word to the secretary. The receptionist from downstairs had called on someone to bring us up. Sebastian chuckled. Suddenly he became serious.

"I'm glad you could make it over. We've had a break-in."  
>He led us out of his office and to a new part of the building.<p>

"Sir William's office, the bank's former Chairman. The room's been left here like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in late last night."

"What did they steal?" I asked.

"Nothing. They just left a little message." Sebastian replied.

He led us into the office. There was a single desk in the room and a lamp. Behind the desk was a large portrait of the former chairman on the wall. There was a yellow streak spray painted over his eyes. There was another spray painted on the side of the portrait.

I saw Sherlock begin taking pictures of the vandalism with his phone. Sebastian led us over to the desk which had a security tape pulled up. We stood behind us as he stowed us the tape.

"Sixty seconds apart." He explained.

There was an exact one minute missing between 11:33 and 11:34pm..

"So, someone came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint around, then left within a minute." Sebastian added.

"How many ways into that office?" Sherlock asked

"Well, that's where this gets really interesting."

Sebastian opened a new page on the computer. It appeared to be a log of some sort.

"Every door that opens in this bank, it gets logged right here. Every walk-in cupboard, every toilet."

"That door didn't open last night." Sherlock concluded.

"There's a hole in our security. Find it and we'll pay you five figures."

He pulled a checkbook out of the inside of his suit jacket.

"This is an advance. Tell me how he got in, there's a bigger one on its way."

He began to fill out the check.

"I don't _need_ an incentive, Sebastian." Sherlock scowled.

He walked out of the office. Was he kidding me?!

"He's just kidding! Obviously. I'll just take that."  
>Sebastian nodded, finished writing, and handed me the check.<p>

"Thanks."

"So are you and Sherlock like…" Sebastian raised his eyebrows.

"Sorry?"

"Well you two do share a flat. I'm assuming…"

I laughed.

"Are you kidding me? Me and _Sherlock_? Ha! No, we're just friends." I assured him.

Sebastian nodded.

"Say, are you doing anything this…" he began.

I cut him off, "No. No, no, no. Don't even finish that sentence."

With that I hurried after Sherlock.

A little while later, Sherlock and I were back in the former chairman's office. I was sitting on the desk watching Sherlock. He had taken more pictures of the portrait and was not staring out the window.

Suddenly, he pushed the blinds away and opened the side doors. H walked out on the side balcony. He looked down at the street below.

_'__Sherlock Holmes, if you even think about jumping…' _I thought.

Suddenly, he hurried back inside and out of the office. I watched him as he began to do a weird dance through the rows of cubicles outside.

He ran back and forth, all the time looking at the office as he went. He then began twirling. I shook my head sadly. What was he up too? He then began ducking behind several desks in cubicles.

He suddenly grabbed a name plate off one of the desks. He motioned for me to follow him as he headed towards the elevator. I hopped off the desk and hurried at him.

"Two trips around the world this month. You didn't ask his secretary; you said that just to irritate him." I said when we were going down the escalator.

Sherlock simply smiled.

"How _did_ you know?" I asked.

"Did you see his watch? The time was right but the date was wrong. Said two days ago. Crossed the dateline twice but he didn't alter it."

"Within a month? How'd you get that bit?"

"New Breitling. The brand only came out this February." He explained.  
>I smiled.<p>

"So, where are you taking me?"

"That graffiti was a message for someone at the bank working on the trading floors. We find the intended recipient and they'll lead us to the person who sent it." He explained.  
>"Well, there's three hundred people up there. Who was it meant for?" I asked.<br>"Pillars."

"What?"

"Pillars and the screens. Very few places you can see that graffiti from. That narrows the field considerably. And of course the message was left at eleven thirty-four last night. That tells us a lot."

We began to walk out the tall bank and through the street..

"Traders come to work at all hours. Some trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was intended for someone who came in at midnight."

He held up a name card.

"Not many Van Coons in the phonebook." He added.

'You clever boy.' I thought.

He waved his arm.

"Taxi!"

A black cab stopped at the curb in front of us.

"This is why we don't have any money." I said as soon as we got in the cab.

Sherlock looked at me waiting for me to continue.

"These cab rides are stupid expensive. Can't we just take the Tube?"

Sherlock sighed and looked out the window.

"No."  
>"Sherlock."<p>

"I'm not a fan of the Tube. Too many people."

I rolled my eyes. Oh Sherlock.

The cab stopped in front a tall apartment building, Sherlock led me up to the building resident buzzer. He pressed the buzzer for Van Coon. We waited. There was no response. He tried again. Nothing.

"So what do we do now? Sit here and wait for him to come back?" I asked.

"Just moved in." Sherlock blurted.

"What?"

"The floor above. New label."

He pointed to another buzzer. It had a handwritten label that read: _Wintle_  
>"They could've just replaced it.<p>

"No one ever does that."

He pressed the Wintle buzzer. A woman answered.

"Hello?"

Sherlock turned to look up at the camera (so the residents could see who was calling).

"Hi! Um, I live in the flat just below you. I-I don't think we've met."

He was trying his hardest to sound kind. It was hysterical! I nearly burst out laughing.

_"_No, well, uh, I've just moved in."

"Actually, I've just locked my keys in my flat." Sherlock added.

"Do you want me to buzz you in?" the woman asked.

"Yeah. And can I use your balcony?" he added.

"What?"

I watched as Sherlock jumped off of Ms. Wintle's balcony and down to the Van Coon balcony below. We had told Ms. Wintle that we were married. She was a nice lady. She was quite young too.

"I'm sorry about this. My husband does this all the time. We really need to get a spare key." I told her, a fake smile plastered on my face.

Ms. Wintle smiled.

"It's fine. Don't worry about it."

I hurried down to the Van Coons flat. As soon as I arrived at the door, Sherlock let me in.

"Why thank you, Mr. Van Coon." I said as I walked in.

"Of course Mrs. Van Coon." He replied casually.

He continued to look around the flat. The flat was relatively clean. Nothing looked out of place. He tried to open up the bedroom door, but it was locked. Sherlock rammed his shoulder into the door and managed to break it open.

He froze when he got inside. I trailed after him. When I walked in, I saw why he froze. There on the bed was Mr. Van Coon… dead… with a bullet hole on the right side of his head.

I sighed, "Oh great."

It didn't take very long for the police to arrive. When they did, they spread out over the whole apartment and searched. I was standing next to Sherlock in the bedroom, watching the forensics team examine the body.

"So, what do you think? Suicide?" I asked.

"We don't know that it _was_ suicide."

"Come on. The door was locked from the inside; you had to climb down the balcony."

Sherlock left me to examine the suitcase on the floor by the bed.

"Been away three days, judging by the laundry." He muttered.

He looked back at me.

"Look at the case. There was something tightly packed inside it."

"Okay. I'll take your word for it."

"Problem?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm not desperate to rummage around through some dead man's dirty underwear."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up.

"Those symbols at the bank, the graffiti. Why were they put there?  
>"I don't know, some sort of <em>code<em>?" I laughed.

"Obviously. Why were they painted? If you want to communicate, why not use email?"

Sherlock had somehow produced latex gloves and began to look through Van Coon's jacket pockets.  
>"Well, maybe he wasn't answering." I said.<p>

"Oh good. You follow. What kind of a message would everyone try to avoid?"

I just looked at my flatmate in confusion.

"What about this morning. Those letters you were looking at?"

"Bills?" I asked.

"Yes. He was being threatened." Sherlock replied.

Suddenly Sherlock stood up and walked out to the main room. I followed behind. There was a man there talking to one of the other officers. He appeared to be in charge.

"Ah, Sergeant. We haven't met."

Sherlock took off a glove and held out his hand for a handshake. The man ignored Sherlock.

"Yeah, I know who you are and I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence."

Sherlock lowered his hand and handed the officer an evidence bag.

"I've phoned Lestrade. Is he on his way?" Sherlock asked.

"He's busy. _I'm_ in charge. And it's not _Sergeant_, it's Detective Inspector. Dimmock." The man replied.

Sherlock looked surprised.

"We're obviously looking at a suicide." Dimmock said.

Sherlock removed his other glove as well.

"Wrong. It's one _possible_ explanation of _some_ of the facts. You've got a solution that you like, but you're choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it."

"Like?" Dimmock asked.

"The wound was on the _right_ side of his head." Sherlock replied.

"And?"

Sherlock smirked, "Van Coon was left-handed. Requires quite a bit of contortion."

He then began to dramatically stretch his left arm over his head, mimicking what it would've been like. I smirked. Sherlock was a _child_.

"Left-handed?" Dimmock asked.

"Oh, I'm amazed you didn't notice. All you have to do is look around this flat." Sherlock said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Dimmock had his full attention on Sherlock now.

"Coffee table on the left-hand side; coffee mug handle pointing to the left. Power sockets, habitually used the ones on the left. Pen and paper on the left-hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and took down messages with his left. Do you want me to go on?" Sherlock explained.

Dimmock shook his head.

"I think you've covered it."

"Oh, I might as well. I'm almost at the bottom of the list. There's a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left. It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the _right_ side of his head. Conclusion, someone broke in here and murdered him. _Only_ explanation of _all_ the facts." He finished.

"But the gun. Why?" Dimmock added.

"He was _waiting_ for the killer. He'd been threatened."

"What?"

"Today at the bank. Sort of a warning." I added.

"He fired a shot when his attacker came in."

"And the bullet?" Dimmock asked.

"Went through the open window." Sherlock replied.

Dimmock scoffed, "Oh, come on! What are the chances of _that_?!"

"Wait until you get the ballistics report. The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun. I guarantee it."

Dimmock was staring at Sherlock. I couldn't tell if he looked irritated or impressed. Both I guess.

"But if his door was locked from the inside, how did the killer get in?"

Sherlock pretended to be shocked, "Good! You're finally asking the right questions."

With that he turned on his heels and headed out of the apartment.

"I'm sorry for… him." I said.

Dimmock nodded and I raced to catch up with Sherlock. We had a new case and I was excited!


	7. The Blind Banker: Part 2

Before we could go back to the flat, Sherlock had to go update Sebastian about the case. We found out where he was from his secretary. Sebastian was having lunch with some clients and colleagues. We ended up at the restaurant they were at.

I followed Sherlock as he walked over to his '_old friend's' _table.

Sebastian was in the middle of telling a (horrible) joke.

"It was a threat. That's what the graffiti meant." Sherlock interrupted.

Sebastian looked up at us in confusion.

"I'm kind of in a meeting. Can you make an appointment with my secretary?"

"I don't think this can wait. Sorry, Sebastian. One of your traders, someone who worked in your office, was killed."

"What?" Sebastian asked, taken aback.

"Van Coon. The police are at his flat." I added.

Sebastian stared at us in shock, "Killed?"

Sherlock sighed.

"Sorry to interfere with everyone's digestion. Still wanna make an appointment? Would, maybe, nine o'clock at Scotland Yard suit?" Sherlock asked sarcastically.  
>A few minutes later, Sebastian followed us to the back of the restaurant. Sherlock somehow managed to get us in the back of the kitchen so we could talk. I sat on one of the counters while the two boys stood next to me.<p>

The sounds of banging pots and pans and the sizzling of food was all around us.

Sebastian began, "Van Coon. Went to Harrow. Oxford. Very bright guy. Worked in Asia for a while, so I gave him the Hong Kong accounts. He lost five mill in a single morning and made it all back a week later. Nerves of steel, Eddie had."

Several waiters walked around us carrying plates of food.

"Who'd wanna kill him?" I asked.  
>Sebastian shrugged, "We all make enemies."<p>

I raised my eyebrows, "You don't all end up with a bullet through your temple."

Sebastian's phone suddenly beeped.

"Not usually… Excuse me."

He pulled out his phone and checked who was messaging him.  
>"It's my Chairman. The police have been on to him. Apparently they're telling him it was a suicide."<p>

"Well, they've got it wrong, Sebastian. He was murdered." Sherlock said.

"Well, I'm afraid they don't see it like that… and neither does my boss. I hired you to do a job. Don't get side-tracked."  
>With that he left us in the kitchen and went back to his meeting. I looked over at Sherlock, expecting him to say something sarcastic. He was silent though.<p>

~~~

The next day I had a job interview. The night before, I had looked for jobs in the newspaper and online and I had managed to get an interview for a job as a secretary at a Pediatrician. The building was only three Tube stops away from Baker Street, so it was perfect.

I was in an office with Doctor Pete Evans. He was the one who was interviewing me. He was around my age. I was shocked when I found out he was a doctor. He had short, spiked light brown hair and hazel eyes. I had to admit, he was _really _attractive.

"Well, you appear to be very qualified." he said, flipping through the resume (I had managed to type up last night).

I smiled.

"It says here that your previous job was at a video shop? And you got fired? What happened?" he asked.

"We do not speak of it." I said dramatically.

He laughed.

"So, why do you want to work here, again?"

I shrugged, "I could always do with the money."

"Well, we've got two away on holiday this week, and one's just left to have a baby, so there will be lots of people calling in to reschedule appointments."

"That's fine."

"Anything else you can do?"

"I learned that piano in school, but I'm awful." I admitted.

"Aww, too bad, I was looking forward to jam sessions in the lobby." He chuckled.  
>I smiled. I think I would like this job a <em>lot <em>more than I thought I would.

When I got back to the flat, I found Sherlock staring at the mirror above the fireplace, which was now covered in pictures of the spray painted painting from the bank.

"I said, 'Could you pass me a pen?'" Sherlock immediately said.

I looked at him in confusion.

"What? When?

He shrugged, "About an hour ago."  
>I face-palmed before retrieving a pen from the desk and handed it to him.<p>

"I told you I was leaving. I had that job interview at the Pediatrician." I said.

"How was it?"

"It was great," I smiled, "he was _really _great!"

"Who?" Sherlock asked slowly.

That's when I realized what I said.

"The job."

"'He'?"

"It." I corrected.

Sherlock glanced at me suspiciously for a moment.

He shrugged and picked his laptop off of the coffee table, "Here, have a look."

I walked over and took the laptop from him. On the screen was a news article. It read: '_Ghostly killer leaves a mystery for police: An intruder who can walk through walls murdered a man in his London__apartment last night. Brian Lukis, 41, a freelance journalist from Earl's Court was found shot in his fourth floor flat but all his doors and windows were locked and there were no apparent signs of a break in. A police spokesman said they are still uncertain how the assailant broke in…_'

I glanced over at Sherlock. I just knew he was secretly screaming with excitement on the inside.

"'_The intruder who can walk through walls_.'" I read.

"Happened last night. Journalist shot dead in his flat. Doors locked, windows bolted from the inside. Exactly the same as Van Coon."

"And, you think…"

Sherlock nodded, "Yep. He's killed another one."

Next thing I knew, we were at Scotland Yard. Sherlock was typing furiously on a laptop. Across the desk from us was Dimmock.

"Brian Lukis, freelance journalist. Murdered in his flat doors locked from the inside." Sherlock said, turning the laptop around to show Dimmock the article.

"You've gotta admit, it's similar." I added.

Dimmock scowled as he skimmed through the article.

"Both men killed by someone who can walk through solid walls." I shrugged.

"Inspector, do you seriously believe that Eddie Van Coon was just another City suicide?" Sherlock asked.

Dimmock sighed and closed the laptop.

"You _have_ seen the ballistics report, I suppose?" Sherlock added.

Dimmock nodded.

"And the shot that killed him, was it fired from his own gun?"

"No." Dimmock admitted.

"No. So this investigation might move a bit quicker if you were to take my word as gospel. I've just handed you a murder enquiry."

Dimmock was silent as he eyes Sherlock up and down.

My flatmate continued, "Five minutes in his flat."

Dimmock had allowed Sherlock and I full access to Lukis' flat. I followed Sherlock and Dimmock upstairs to the room where Lukis was murdered in.

There was a small suitcase by the bed. The floor was scattered with books. It looked like Lukis lived in a library. Sherlock began to walk around the room, glancing behind furniture and out the windows.

Suddenly, he stopped and picked up something from the floor. He walked back over to Dimmock and me and handed the object to Dimmock. It was a black, origami lotus.  
>"Four floors up. <em>That's<em> why they think they're safe. Put a chain across the door and bolt it shut, think they're impregnable. They don't reckon for one second that there's another way in."

Sherlock turned and walked to the skylight right outside the room.

"I don't understand." Dimmock said.

"You're dealing with a killer who can climb."

Sherlock grabbed a spare chair and moved it directly under the skylight. He then proceeded to stand on it and examine the window above him.

"What are you doing?" Dimmock asked.

"He clings to the walls like an insect." Sherlock muttered.

He unhooked the latch on the skylight and pushed it open.

"That's how he got in. He climbed up the side of the walls, ran along the roof, dropped in through this skylight."

Dimmock scoffed, "You're not serious! Like Spiderman?"

Sherlock stepped off of the chair.

"He scaled six floors of a Docklands apartment building, jumped the balcony to kill Van Coon. And of course that's how he got into the bank. He ran along the window ledge and onto the terrace."

Dimmock was silent. He just stared at Sherlock.

"We have to find out what connects these two men." Sherlock added.

He paused and became distracted by one of the piles of books to the side. Sherlock reached down and picked up a specific book. He flipped through the pages for a second before slamming it shut.

"Alice we're leaving. Hurry up." He said as he began to leave the flat.

We took a cab to the West Kensington Library. Sherlock maneuvered through the many shelves, Lukis' book being his only reference of where to go.

_"_Date stamped on the book is the same day that he died." Sherlock explained quietly as we passed more shelves.

Finally, we arrived at the right aisle of books, and Sherlock found the right section. He began pulling books from around Lukis' book's shelf number. He stacked the books in my arms as he went.

In the new gap left by the missing books, on the back of the shelf was the same two symbols that were spray painted over the portrait at the bank.

We had finally gotten back to 221B. Sherlock had added photos of the library shelf to the pictures of the portrait on the mirror. _Meanwhile_ I was sprawled out on the couch, watching Sherlock pace back and forth as he tried to make sense of everything.

"So, the killer goes to the bank, leaves a threatening cipher for Van Coon. Van Coon panics, returns to his apartment, locks himself in. Hours later, he dies.

I nodded, "The killer finds Lukis at the library. He writes the cipher on the shelf where he knows it'll be seen. Lukis goes home."  
>"Late that night, he dies too."<p>

"_Why_ did they die, Sherlock?" I asked.

_"_Only the cipher can tell us."

I followed Sherlock through Trafalgar Square. He was heading towards the National Gallery.

_"_The world's run on codes and ciphers, Alice. From the million-pound security system at the bank, to the PIN machine you took exception to, cryptography inhabits our every waking moment." He said.

"Yeah, okay, but…"

"But it's all computer-generated: electronic codes, electronic ciphering methods. This is different. It's an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods won't unravel it."

"Where are we headed anyways?" I asked.

"I need to ask some advice."

I smiled.

"What?! Sorry?" I said in disbelief.

Sherlock shot me a look.

"You heard me perfectly. I'm not saying it again."

"You need advice?"

"On painting, yes. I need to talk to an expert."  
>Sherlock led me towards the back of the National Gallery building. There was a guy, late teens by the looks of him, spray painting a police man holding a rifle on one of the back metal doors. There was only one problem… the man's nose had been replaced with a pig snout. I had to admit, that was original.<p>

"Raz." Sherlock said as we walked up.

"Part of a new exhibition." Raz said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Interesting."

"I call it Urban Bloodlust Frenzy." He chuckled.

"Catchy." I commented.

Raz smiled at me before he continued to spray paint.

"I've got two minutes before a Community Support Officer comes round that corner. Can we do this while I'm working?"

Sherlock took his phone out of his pocket and showed the pictures of rhe graffiti to Raz.

"Know the author?" Sherlock asked.

"Recognize the paint. It's like Michigan, hardcore propellant. I'd say zinc."

"What about the symbols: do you recognize them?"

Raz squinted at the pictures.

"Not even sure it's a proper language."

"Two men have been murdered, Raz. Deciphering this is the key to finding out who killed them." I said.

"What, and this is all you've got to go on? It's hardly much, now, is it?"

"Are you gonna help us or not?" Sherlock asked.

Raz nodded.

"I'll ask around."

Sherlock looked relieved, "Somebody _must_ know something about it."

"Oi!"

The sudden voice made he jump. All three of us turned just in time to see two Community Support Officers running towards us. Sherlock grabbed his phone was Raz and ran, leaving me behind. Raz ran in the opposite direction. I groaned and chased after Sherlock.

"The least you could do was give me warning!" I shouted at my flatmate.

Sherlock didn't respond. He just kept running.

We were back at 221B. I was back in my spot on the couch with a Dum-Dum lollipop in my mouth. Sherlock was back at his position in from of his mirror. The mirror was almost completely covered now. Sherlock had added on several pieces of paper with possible ciphers.

"This symbol. I still can't place it." Sherlock said.

I was only half paying attention.

"That's nice."

"Alice, I need you to go to the police station."

I was listening more closely now.

"What?"

"Ask about the journalist. His personal effects will have been impounded. Get a hold of his diary, or something that will tell us his movements." He added.

I sighed and rose to my feet.

"I'm going to go and see Van Coon's P.A. If we retrace their steps, somewhere they'll coincide."

We both hurried out of the flat and separated. I waved for a cab and one stopped at the curb. I was too lazy to go down on the Tube today.

Before I got in the cab, I noticed an Asian woman across the street. She was dressed in all black and had on dark sunglasses. She almost seemed to be staring at me. I shrugged it off and ducked into the cab.

"Scotland Yard." I told the driver when I got in.

The cab lurched forward and began driving down the road.

I was in Dimmock's office. A box Lukiss possessions was on the desk and I was rummaging through everything.

"Your friend he's an arrogant sod." Dimmock said as he watched me search.

I smiled, "Well, _that_ was mild! People say a lot worse than that."

Dimmock helped me out and handed me the diary.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it? The journalist's diary?"

"Yeah, thanks."

I opened to the page with the bookmark. The bookmark was a boarding pass to Dalian DLC (Dalian Zhoushuizi International Airport) to London LHR (London Heathrow Airport) on Zhuang Airlines._  
><em>  
>~~~<p>

I was walking down the street to where the address in the latest diary entry. I was in Chinatown. Suddenly, a man ran into me.

"Hey, watch it!" I said.

The man turned and looked at me. It was Sherlock.  
>Sherlock began talking a hundred miles an hour, "Eddie Van Coon brought a package here the day he died. Whatever was hidden inside that case. I've managed to piece together a picture using scraps of information. Credit card bills, receipts. He flew back from China, then he came here. Somewhere in this street; somewhere near. I don't know where, but…"<p>

I pointed to across the road, "That shop over there."

Sherlock looked at the shop and frowned.

"How can you tell?"

I held up the diary.

"Lukis' diary. He came here too. And he wrote down the address."

Sherlock sighed.

"Oh."  
>We walked into a small shop called the Lucky Cat. It was very appropriately named. It had a wide variety of decorative cats.<p>

"Hello." I said to the shopkeeper.

"You want lucky cat?" she asked.

Her English was very good. The shopkeeper was an older woman with dark hair.

I shook my head, "No thanks."

"Ten pound. Ten pound!" the shopkeeper added.

Sherlock smirked at me.

I nodded, "Thank you."  
>The shopkeeper turned to Sherlock.<p>

"I think your wife there, she will like!"

I face-palmed. Why did _everyone _think that Sherlock and I were together? _Why_?

Sherlock just ignored the woman. I picked up a small clay statue and looked at the price tag.

"Sherlock." I whispered handing him the statue.

On the price tag were the same symbols that had been on the portrait and library shelf.

We left the shop a few minutes later and headed down the street.

Sherlock began to explain, "It's an ancient number system! Hangzhou. These days, only street traders use it. Those were numbers written on the wall at the bank and at the library. Numbers written in an ancient Chinese dialect."

He stopped at a small vegetable stand. On each bin, there was the Chinese price and below that was the number in English.

"It's a fifteen! What we thought was the artist's tag but it's a number fifteen." I said.

He nodded, "And the blindfold, the horizontal line? That was a number as well."

Sherlock showed me another price tag.

"The Chinese number one, Alice."

"We've found it!"

Sherlock smiled and began to walk away. That's when I saw her. The Asian woman from earlier when I left the flat… she was across the road from me again. A car passed by and the woman was gone. I quickly ran to keep up with Sherlock. Something weird was going on.

I followed Sherlock into a little Chinese restaurant across from the Lucky Cat. Sherlock began to scribble the Chinese numbers on a napkin as he spoke.

"Two men travel back from China. Both head straight for the Lucky Cat emporium. They both brought back something in those suitcases."

I nodded remembering the suitcases in Van Coon's and Lukis' apartments.

"Think about what Sebastian told us about Van Coon… about how he stayed afloat in the market."  
>I nodded, "He lost five million…"<p>

"…And made it back in a week." Sherlock finished for me.

I nodded again.

"That's how he made such easy money. He was a smuggler."

"A guy like him, it would have been perfect. A business man making frequent trips to Asia. And Lukis was the same. A journalist writing about China. Both of them smuggled stuff out, and the Lucky Cat was their drop-off."

"But why did they die? I mean, it doesn't make sense. If they both turn up at the shop and deliver the goods, why would someone threaten them and kill them after the event, after they'd finished the job?" I asked.

Sherlock eyed me up and down.

"Think."

I rolled my eyes and thought for a few seconds.

"Okay, so one of the smugglers must've stolen something. And the killer didn't know which one of them took it, so he threatened them both and went on his little killing spree."

Sherlock smirked.

"Very good."

Suddenly his smile faded and he was just staring out the window, across the street.

"What is it?" I asked.

Sherlock didn't look away from the window.

"Remind me, when was the last time that it rained?" he muttered.

I shrugged, "I don't know, like three days ago."

He suddenly stood up and started to head out of the restaurant. I sighed and hurried after him.


	8. The Blind Banker: Part 3

I chased after Sherlock as he ran across the road outside and to the apartment buildings next to the Lucky Cat. By the door to one of the buildings were the Yellow Pages. Sherlock knelt down and ran his finger over the book. V The plastic wrap around it had water droplets on it.

"It's been here since Monday." Sherlock said quietly.

He straightened himself up and pressed the buzzer on the door. The buzzer had the name '_Soo Lin Yao_' printed on the name card. When no one answered, Sherlock walked over to the side of the building. There was an alley there.

"No one's been in that flat for at least three days." He said.

"They could be on vacation."

I followed Sherlock as he turned around the corner and looked up at the building from the alley.

"Do _you_ leave your windows open when you go on holiday?"  
>I glanced up at the flat. Sure enough, one of the back windows was open. There was no way to get up to the flat though… well unless you used the fire escape.<p>

Suddenly Sherlock backed up, ran passed me, and jumped up to grab the rungs on the ladder to the fire escape. He easily pulled it down and began climbing up to the open window.

Of course _he _would use the fire escape.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" I asked as I watched him climb into the open window.

"Someone else has been here." I heard him call out of the open window.

I sighed. I was so done with him. I walked back around to the from door and pressed the buzzer again. Sherlock wouldn't open the door. I repeatedly pressed the button. I bent over and pushed open the mail slot.  
>"Hey, let me in!" I called.<p>

"I'm not the first!" I heard him faintly call out through the door.

"What?"

_"_Somebody's been in here before me!" he shouted louder.

After that I could no longer here what he was blabbering on about. I straightened myself up, crossed my arms, and waited outside the front door. Ten minutes passed… nothing.

"Are you kidding me?" I asked myself aloud.

I leaned back over and pushed open the mail slot.

"_Any_ time you want to include me." I hollered.

I sighed. Five more minutes passed. My temper was starting to turn.

"No, I'm Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone because no-one else can compete with my MASSIVE INTELLECT!" I screamed into the apartment.  
>I began to slam the buzzer with my thumb over and over and over and over…<p>

A few minutes later he finally came to the door. His face was flushed and he was out of breath. He was half reaching up to his neck.

"Are you okay?" I asked, sounding concerned.

He nodded and cleared his throat.

"The, uh, milk's gone off and the washing's starting to smell. Somebody left here in a hurry three days ago." He said, still partially out of breath.

"Somebody?"

"Soo Lin Yao. We have to find her."

"Okay. How?"

Sherlock glanced at the Yellow Pages. He picked it up. There was a note taped to one side of the plastic. I pulled it off. It read:

Soo Lin,

Please ring me tell me you're OK.  
>-Andy<p>

Sherlock took the note from me and unfolded it some more. It had been written on an old envelope. The envelope said:

NATIONAL ANTIQUITIES MUSEUM

"Maybe we could start with this?" Sherlock croaked.

He closed the door and began to head off down the road. He was walking slower than usual.

I looked at him worriedly, "Are you sure you're alright? You look like you've had the wind knocked out of you."

"I'm fine."

We took a cab out of Chinatown and to the National Antiquities Museum. When we arrived, we managed to find Andy. He worked there. Sherlock was interviewing him.

"When was the last time that you saw her?"

"Three days ago, um, here at the museum." Andy replied.

Sherlock glanced at the display of clay teapots a few feet away.

"This morning they told me she'd resigned just like that. Just left her work unfinished." He continued.

"What was the last thing that she did on her final afternoon?" Sherlock asked.

Andy led us down to the basement archives.

"She does this demonstration for the tourists, a tea ceremony. So she would have packed up her things and just put them in here." He explained, stopping at one of the large white metal cabinets.

Sherlock didn't stop by Andy and me. He had walked right passed us and towards a statue in the corner, half covered with a sheet.

"Sherlock, what is it?" I asked.

Andy had stopped opening the cabinet and had now turned his attention over to Sherlock.

Sherlock slowly pulled the sheet on the statue. On the statue were the same spray painted symbols as on the portrait and the bookshelf. Oh great.

After the sun had set, Sherlock dragged me back to Trafalgar Square to the National Gallery. We were waiting in the alley behind the gallery where we had met Raz earlier.

"We have to get to Soo Lin Yao."

"If she's still alive." I muttered.

Suddenly, another voice joined in our conversation.

"Sherlock!"

I turned my head. It was Raz. He came loping over to us.

"Found something you'll like." He smiled.

Sherlock and I followed Raz a few blocks to Hungerford Bridge (towards the south side of the Thames). There was a skate park there… every inch was covered in graffiti. Not many people were at the park. Maybe five.

Sherlock smirked as we walked, "If you want to hide a tree, then a forest is the best place to do it, wouldn't you say? People would just walk straight past, not knowing, unable to decipher the message."

He sounded almost impressed.

"There. I spotted it earlier." Raz said pointing to a wall _covered_ in paint.

"They _have_ been in here," Sherlock paused and turned to Raz, "And that's the exact same paint?"  
>Raz nodded, "Yeah."<p>

"Alice, if we're going to decipher this code, we're gonna need to look for more evidence."

I sighed.

"More running?" I groaned.

Oh how I hated running.

He smirked, "You catch on quick."

I had a flashlight and was walking in a train yard. Sherlock had run off somewhere to look near the tracks. I was walking next to an underpass, when I saw something in the corner of my eye. I turned around to look at the wall of the underpass.

On the brick wall was a neat, bright yellow symbol. I slowly backed up to get a clearer view of it. Instead of just one symbol, it was at least ten symbols. All were neatly painted in the proper spray paint on the wall.

I pulled out my phone and quickly took a picture before I started to run towards the tracks. I tried calling him so I could find him faster, but of course he wouldn't pick up.

I eventually found him searching near the tracks on the complete opposite of the train yard then where I had been. I ran up to him. Yay, more running.

"Answer your phone! I've been calling you! I've found it." I panted, running over.

I then immediately turned back around and started running back towards the wall. Sherlock ran after me.

"It's painted over." I gasped when we reached the wall.

Sherlock shined his flashlight on the wall. The wall was completely blank.

"I don't understand. I-it was here ten minutes ago. I _saw_ it. A whole load of graffiti!"

"Somebody doesn't want me to see it." Sherlock mumbled.

Suddenly Sherlock grabbed my head between both of his gloved hands.

"Um, what are you doing?" I asked, taken aback.

He shushed me, "Shh, Alice, concentrate. I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes."

"Okay, why?"

Sherlock moved his hands to my upper arms and began to spin us around in circles.

"I need you to maximize your visual memory. Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?"

I nodded, "Yeah."

"Can you remember it?"

"Absolutely."

"Can you remember the pattern?"

"I just said yes."

"How _much_ can you remember it?" he asked.

"All of it, Sherlock, I can remember all of it."

"The average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two percent accurate."

"Yeah, well, don't worry. I remember all of it." I smiled.

Sherlock grabbed my head again.

"Really?" he asked in disbelief.

I sighed and shoved my flatmate off of me.

"Yeah," I fished my phone out of my pocket, "I took a photograph."

I showed the screen to Sherlock.

And we were back in 221B again. Sherlock had made printed copies of the new pictures and had added them to the already cluttered mirror.

"Always in pairs, Alice." He said.

I mumbled in response lazily. I was sitting on the couch again… this time eating a bag of potato chips.

"That's nice."

"Numbers come with partners."

I glanced around at the flat and sighed.

"I need to sleep." I mumbled.

Sherlock wasn't hearing me.

"Why did he paint it so near the tracks? Thousands of people pass by there every day."

I yawned. I could literally hear my pillow calling to me from upstairs.

"Of course." Sherlock blurted.

Oh great. He just figured it out.

"Of _course_! He wants information. He's trying to communicate with his people in the underworld. Whatever was stolen, he wants it back. Somewhere here in the code. We can't crack this without Soo Lin Yao." Sherlock explained as he ripped down all of the new pictures.

He hurried over to the door and threw back on his trench coat. I sighed and got up, tiredly following him to who knows where.

And we were back at the National Antiquities Museum. It was about to close, but lucky for us, Andy was still there.

"Two men who travelled back from China were murdered, and their killer left them messages in the Hangzhou numerals." Sherlock was explaining.

"Soo Lin Yao's in danger. Now, that cipher. It was just the same pattern as the others. He means to kill her as well." I chimed in.

Andy nodded.

"Look, I've tried everywhere, friends, colleagues… I-I don't know where she's gone. I mean, she could be a thousand miles away."

Sherlock had stopped listening. He was staring at one of the glass display cases. It was the one with clay teapots inside.

"What?" I asked.

"Tell me more about those teapots." Sherlock said, nodding towards the display.

"The pots were her obsession. Um, they need urgent work. If they dry out, then the clay can start to crumble. Apparently you have to just keep making tea in them."

Sherlock walked over to get a better look at the teapots.

He smirked, "Yesterday, only one of those pots was shining. Now there are two."

We had stayed at the museum after closing (thanks to Andy). Sherlock had said that Soo Lin Yao _would _come back to the museum. So we waited.

I was wandering near one of the entrances, waiting for any kind of a disturbance. Meanwhile, Sherlock had stayed in the room with the clay teapots.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed. I quickly pulled it out. It was a text from Sherlock. He found her. I ran through the empty halls of the museum until I was back in clay teapot's room.

There was Soo Lin, sitting on one of the stools next to a table in the room.

"You saw the cipher. Then you know he is coming for me." Soo Lin said.

"You've been clever to avoid him so far." Sherlock replied.

"I had to finish this work. It's only a matter of time. I know he will find me."

Sherlock nodded, "Who is he? Have you met him before?"

"When I was a girl, living back in China. I recognized his 'signature'." She began to explain.

"The cipher." Sherlock said.

"Only _he_ would do this. Zhi Zhu."

"Zhi Zhu?" I asked.

Sherlock glanced over at me.

"The Spider." He said.

Soo Lin began to unlace her converse and took off her sock. She held her foot up for us to see. On the underside of her heel was a tattoo of a black lotus inside a circle.  
>"You know this mark?" she asked.<p>

Sherlock nodded, "Yes. It's the mark of a Tong."

Before I could even think about asking what the heck was going on, Sherlock continued talking.

"Ancient crime syndicate based in China."

"Every foot soldier bears the mark; everyone who hauls for them." Soo Lin added.

Hauls. So the smugglers worked for this Zhi Zhu guy. I understood now.

"So you were a smuggler?" I asked.

"I was fifteen. My parents were dead. I had no livelihood; no way of surviving day to day except to work for the bosses." She explained.

"Who are they?" Sherlock asked.

"They are called the Black Lotus. By the time I was sixteen, I was taking thousands of pounds' worth of drugs across the border into Hong Kong. But I managed to leave that life behind me. I came to England. They gave me a job here. Everything was good. A new life."

"Then he came looking for you." Sherlock added.

Soo Lin nodded sadly.

"Yes. I had hoped after five years maybe they would have forgotten me, but they never really let you leave. A small community like ours – they are never very far away. He came to my flat. He asked me to help him to track down something that was stolen. I refused to help."

She wiped a tear away. She was crying.

"So you knew him well when you were living back in China?" Sherlock asked.

She nodded and looked up at Sherlock.

"Oh yes. He's my brother."

Oh…

"Two orphans. We had no choice. We could work for the Black Lotus, or starve on the streets like beggars. My brother has become their puppet, in the power of the one they call Shan – the Black Lotus general. I turned my brother away. He said I had betrayed him. Next day I came to work and the cipher was waiting." She said.

Sherlock began to lay out the pictures in front of her.

"Can you decipher these?" he asked.

She nodded, "These are numbers. Here, the line across the man's eyes – it's the Chinese number one."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"And this one is fifteen. But what's the code?" he asked.

"All the smugglers know it. It's based upon a book…"

Suddenly, the lights went out. Soo Lin's eyes widened.

"He's here. Zhi Zhu. He has found me." She whispered in terror.

Sherlock went running out of the room.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, wait!" I whispered.

He just kept running. I turned to Soo Lin.

"Come here." I said as I led her over to a cupboard.

She squeezed herself inside.

"Stay here and don't move. We'll be right back." I instructed.

Then I ran out of the room after Sherlock. When I got into the open foyer with the grand staircase, I saw Sherlock charging to the opposite side of the room. Suddenly a gunshot rang out and echoed through the building.

I swore and quickly hid myself behind the large statue in the middle of the room. The gun fired again. I glanced out from behind the statue. Sherlock was ducking behind one of the glass display cases.

Before I knew what I was doing, I ran across the open floor. Another shot was fired in my direction. Lucky for me it was dark and the shooter seemed to be a horrid shot. I literally tackled Sherlock as I ducked behind the display case with him.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Trying to make sure you don't get shot, moron."

There was another shot. I swore again.

"Careful!" I heard Sherlock shout.

There was another gunshot.

"Some of those skulls are over two hundred thousand years old! Have a bit of respect!"

The gun fire ceased.

"Thank you." Sherlock said.

I rolled me eyes. Oh Sherlock. There were no more gunshots. It was just silent. I knew he wasn't out of bullets. I had just counted five shots.

Suddenly, the echo of the sixth and final shot rang out through the building. Sherlock and I looked at each other in horror. _Soo Lin_. We ran like hell back to the clay teapot's room.

In the room we found Soo Lin. She was shot, dead on the table. There was a black origami lotus in one of her lifeless hands.

We were back at Scotland Yard. We were waiting for Dimmock to stop talking to one of the officers and come talk to us. As soon as he turned in out direction, we started spitting hate.

"How many murders is it gonna take before you start believing that this maniac's out there?" I demanded.

Dimmock rolled his eyes at me and walked passed the both of us. I followed after him.

"Hey! I'm talking to you! A young girl was gunned down tonight. That's three victims in three days. You're supposed to be finding him." I said louder.

My voice was rising as I spoke.

"Brian Lukis and Eddie Van Coon were working for a gang of international smugglers – a gang called the Black Lotus operating here in London _right_ under your nose." Sherlock explained.

Dimmock leaned in close to Sherlock's face.

"Can you prove that?" he asked, sounding annoyed..

Sherlock smirked.

Sherlock and I went back to St. Bart's Hospital. We were waiting the cafeteria for Molly to show up. I was sitting at one of the tables, eating.

Suddenly Molly walked in and Sherlock and I ran up to her as she got her tray.

"What are you thinking, pork or the pasta?" Sherlock asked, trying to sound pleasant.

Molly looked at the both of us in surprise.

"Oh, it's you!"

"I'd stick with the pasta. Don't wanna be doing roast pork… not if you're slicing up cadavers."

He gave her his best fake smile. Molly grinned nervously.

"What are you having?" she asked.

"Don't eat when I'm working. Digesting slows me down."

With that, he walked back over to our table. Molly turned to me and smiled.

"So you're both working here tonight?"

"We need to examine some bodies." I explained.

"'Some'?"

"Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis."

Molly glanced down at the clipboard that she had under her arm.

"They're on my list."

"Can you wheel them out again?" I asked.

"Well, the paperwork's already gone through." She said quietly.

Sherlock suddenly appeared behind me.

"You've changed your hair."

"What?" Molly asked.

"The style. It's usually parted in the middle. It's good. It, um, suits you better this way." Sherlock said, once again flashing a fake smile.

Molly smiled shyly. She _totally _had a crush on everyone's favorite sociopath.

As soon as Sherlock turned away, his smile dropped and he looked impatiently at his watch.

Dimmock had arrived so he could see the evidence we had to show him. Sherlock excitedly unzipped the body bags containing Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis. It's not that the bodies bothered me or anything, I just wasn't too excited about looking at two dead guys' feet.

"So?" I asked once Sherlock zipped back up the bodies.

"So either these two men just happened to visit the same Chinese tattoo parlor or I'm telling the truth."

"What do you want?" Dimmock sighed.

"I want every book from Lukis' apartment _and_ Van Coon's."

Dimmock and I shot each other the same confused look.

"Their books?"


	9. The Blind Banker: Part 4

I groaned as I threw myself back onto the couch and buried my face into a pillow. Sherlock paced beside me.

"Not just a criminal organization, it's a cult. Her brother was corrupted by one of its leaders. General Shan. _And _we've got almost all we need to know. She gave us most of the missing pieces."

I mumbled in agreement, the pillow still smashed on my face.

"Why did he need to visit his sister? Why did he need _her_ expertise?" he asked himself aloud.

I lifted the pillow a few inches from my face so I could talk.

"She worked at the museum. An expert in antiquities."

"_Valuable_ antiquities, Alice. Ancient Chinese relics purchased on the black market. China's home to a thousand treasures hidden after Mao's revolution. And the Black Lotus is selling them."

His face lightened up.

"I know!" he shouted in delight and ran to the kitchen. I watched him as he sat in front of his laptop.

"What are you doing?"

"Auction sites." He replied _matter-o-factly_.

His fingers typed loudly on the keyboard.

"Alice! Come here!" he blurted.

I heaved myself to my feet and shuffled over to Sherlock. I was still hugging my pillow though.

"Check for the dates." He said as I leaned over his shoulder to look.

He pointed to one of the auctioned items… two Chinese Ming vases.

"Here… Arrived from China four days ago. Anonymous. Vendor doesn't give his name. Two undiscovered treasures from the East."

I nodded, "So one in Lukis' suitcase and one in Van Coon's."

He quickly searched for more auctions.

"Look, here's another one. Arrived from China a month ago: Chinese ceramic statue, sold four hundred thousand pounds." He said pointing to the new auction he had pulled up.

Sherlock paused and smirked.

"All of them from an anonymous source. They're stealing them back in China and one by one they're feeding them into Britain."

I nodded.

"And every single auction coincides with Lukis or Van Coon traveling to China."

"So what if one of them got greedy when they were in China? What if one of them stole something?" Sherlock continued.

"That's why Zhi Zhu's come."

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Mrs. Hudson came walking into the flat. We both looked at her.

"Sorry. Are we collecting for charity, Sherlock?" she asked.

Sherlock knitted his eyebrows together, "What?"

"A young man's outside with crates of books."  
>Sherlock smiled.<p>

"Ah, yes."

About an hour later, two police officers had managed to carry up crate after crate filled with books and dump them in piles around the living room. I closed the door behind them as they left. When I turned around, I was staring at, at least 50 crates. This was going to take awhile…

"So the numbers are references." Sherlock said as he stood by his desk and observed the mess surrounding him.

I climbed on the couch and managed to get over to the desk so we were standing side-by-side.

"To books?" I asked.

"To specific pages and specific words on those pages."

I nodded, "Right so fifteen-one means turn to page fifteen and it's the first word you read?"

Sherlock opened on crate and glanced inside at the scattered novels.

"And the message?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Depends on the book. That's the cunning of the book _code_. Has to be one that they both owned."

I sighed in defeat and rubbed my eyes.

"Of course." I muttered.

Suddenly the door opened and Dimmock walked in. He glanced from the both of us to the crates and shook his head slowly. He placed an evidence bag on one of the crates closest to us.

"We found these, at the museum." He said.

I reached over and opened the bag. It was filled with the pictures of the ciper Sherlock had been showing Soo Lin.

"Is this your writing?" Dimmock added.

I nodded, "Yeah, we hoped Soo Lin could decipher it for us."

Dimmock turned to Sherlock, who had already begun to search through the books.

"Anything else I can do? To assist you, I mean?" he asked.

"Some silence right now would be marvelous." Sherlock said without even looking up.

Dimmock shot me a look. I just shrugged. He began to leave.

"Good night!" I called after him as he closed the door behind him.

Sherlock had started to pile books on top of the crates surrounding him.

"'Cigarette'." He read from one random book.

He grabbed another one.

""'Imagine'."

I sighed. Yep, it was gonna be a long night.

The next morning, we had managed to look through nearly every single box and at nearly every single book… and I felt like dying. I hadn't gotten a wink of sleep.

I was sitting in a chair by the desk. A pile of matching books was piled up in my lap and I was starting to doze off.

Sherlock didn't appear to be affected at all. He was still busy rummaging through the crates. He straightened himself out and scratched his head.

Suddenly an alarm went off on my phone. I groaned and hit my head on the desk. I had to start work today.

_Sleepless In 221B_... that's all that came to my mind.

Suddenly, someone's hand was on my shoulder. I jolted awake expecting to see someone there to attack me… but I wasn't in any danger. I was sitting in a chair, at a table in the break room, with Pete looking down at me. I barely remembered what I was doing here.

Pete smiled at me. Dang, he had a _great_.

"Hey there. Come on. Your shift's over."

My eyes widened as the it dawned on me. I had _fallen asleep _in the break room an hour into my shift. I face-palmed.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. That's not very professional." I muttered.

Pete pulled up a chair and sat across the table from me.

"Nah, you're fine."

"I was up all night."

"What were you doing to keep you up so late?" he asked,

I thought about the right way to phrase it so I didn't sound insane.

"I was attending a sort of book event."

"Oh, he likes books then? Your boyfriend."

I shook me head, "What? No. I wasn't on a date."

"Good."

I just stared at the handsome doctor. _What_?

"Sorry. I mean," he nervously laughed, "Do uh… Do you have any plans tonight?"

I smiled. He liked me. He _actually _liked me.

"No, I'm free. Do you want to do something?"

Pete nodded, "Yeah, do you wanna pick? I'm up for anything."

"Okay. Sure. I'll text you. You can meet me at my apartment at, like, seven-ish?" I asked.

Pete nodded.

"Okay, yeah. Great!"

He stood up.

"I'll, um, I'll see you then."

He awkwardly smiled again.

"K, see you soon." I said as he left.

I had a date tonight. I had an actual _living_ and _breathing_ date!

When I got back to the flat, Sherlock was _still _running around like a maniac, looking for more books. I stood in the doorway and watched me for a moment. It took a good five minutes before he noticed me.

"Alice! Quick! What's a book that everyone owns?" he demanded.

I shrugged, "Dictionary?"

He quickly ran to his bookshelf and yanked off our copy of the Oxford Dictionary. He nearly ripped out the pages trying to find where the cipher was. After a few moments of looking, he growled in frustration and hurled the book across the room and into the wall above the sofa. He leaned on one of the piles of crates and put his head in his hands.

"I need to get some air. We're going out tonight." He said.

I smiled awkwardly, "Yeah, I've got a date tonight."

Sherlock looked up at me in amusement.

"What?"

"It's when two people who like each other go out and eat food and have fun." I clarified.

"That's what _I_ was suggesting."

I scrunched me nose, "It really wasn't."

Sherlock rolled his eyes

"Is this the same one from work?"

I nodded.

"Where is he taking you?"

"I get to pick." I smiled.

Sherlock scoffed, "You? Oh please. It bet it'll be the most dull, boring, and predictable date ever if _you _get to pick."

I sighed.

"Thank you." I deadpanned.

Sherlock suddenly shoved a flier at me, "Why don't you try this?"

I looked at the paper. It was a flier for the _Yellow Dragon Circus_. There was a number on the bottom to call to reserve tickets.

"In London for one night only." he added.

I glanced up at him and smirked.

"A Chinese Circus? I don't see why not."

That night, Pete had come to the flat and picked me up. I ended up deciding to go to the circus. What could possibly go wrong?

"It's _years_ since I've gone to a circus." Pete said.

"Yeah, same. A um, a friend recommended it to me. He phoned up." I explained,

"Ah. What are they, a touring company or something?"

"I honestly don't know much about it."

We paused to look up at the Chinese lanterns hanging up outside of the theatre.

"I think they're probably from China." Pete chuckled.

Well that was a coincidence… wait a minute… Sherlock…

"Hi, I have two tickets reserved for tonight." I said once we got up to the box office.

"And what's the name?" the man behind the counter asked.

"Holmes."

The man searched through a list of names.

"Actually, I have three in that name." he eventually said handing me the tickets.

"Okay? We only booked two." I said awkwardly.

"And then I phoned back and got one for myself as well."

I whipped my head around. There standing just a few feet away was _Sherlock_. He eyes Pete up and down.

"I'm Sherlock." He said.

Pete smiled awkwardly.

"Um, hi. I'm Pete."

"Hello."

Sherlock flashed his best fake smile.

"Pete, I'll be right back. I need to just talk to Sherlock for a moment." I said, trying not to sound as annoyed as I was.

I dragged Sherlock over to a corner of the dark entrance hall.

"You couldn't let me have just one night off?" I demanded quietly.

"Yellow Dragon Circus, in London for one day. It _fits_. The Tong sent an assassin to England."

"Sherlock!" I hissed.

He shrugged, "We're looking for a killer who can climb, who can shin up a rope. Where else would you find that level of dexterity? Exit visas are scarce in China. They need a pretty good reason to get out of that country. Now, all I need to do is have a quick look round the place."  
>I swore. Sherlock pouted at my language.<p>

"I need your help." He said.

"Like _what_?"

"Alice, come on. You _know _you prefer _my_ company over Pete's."

He said Pete's name in disgust.

"Sherlock." I warned.

Sherlock glanced over at Pete who was patiently waiting for us to finish.

"I don't like him." He declared.

I face-palmed. It was my _lucky_ night.

"So, you wanna head up?" Pete asked when we walked back over.

I nodded, "Yeah!"

When we walked upstairs to where the stage was, there were no chairs. It was standing crowd only. The _stage _was surrounded in a circle of candles. There were only about ten other people there besides us three.

"Well this is cozy." Pete muttered.

I turned to Sherlock, "You said circus. This is not a circus. Look at the size of this crowd, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged, "This is not their day job."

"No, sorry, I forgot. They're not a circus; they're a gang of international smugglers." I hissed to my flatmate.

Suddenly, the performance started. It began with a man lightly beating on a drum. A woman dressed in an elegant Chinese dress walked out. Her face was very heavily painted. She walked over to the object in the center of the stage and revealed… an antique crossbow?

The beat of the drums stopped. The woman picked up a long thick wooden arrow with white feathers at one end and a metal arrowhead at the other and showed it to us, the audience, before loading the crossbow. She then pulled one small white feather from her headdress dropped it ina metal cup on the end of the crossbow. The arrow was immediately shot across the stage and embedded itself in a part painted board.

We clapped along with the other audience members.

Suddenly, the music began playing again. A new actor walked into the circle dressed in chainmail and had a painted mask on his head. He held his arms out and two men came out and strapped heavy chains on him…securing him to the painted wooden board.  
>"Classic Chinese escapology act. The crossbow's on a delicate string. The warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires." Sherlock whispered to me and Pete.<p>

The woman loaded another arrow into the crossbow. The music then began to _dramatically _build. That's when I noticed the sandbag hovering above the metal cup on the end of the crossbow. The woman took a small knife and precisely cut a hole into the bag.

The small metal cup began to be weighed down by the sand. It was only a matter of time before it sent the arrow off and into the chained man across the way.

Pete gave me a nervous glance. I shrugged.

The arrow was suddenly shot. The chained man fell out of the way less than a second before it hit the board right where he had been a second ago.

We clapped with the relieved audience. That was _terrifying_. When we stopped clapping, the woman began to speak.

"Ladies and gentlemen, from the distant moonlight shores of the Yangtze River, we present for your pleasure the deadly Chinese bird-spider."

She walked away and a masked acrobat fell from the ceiling, holding onto the red ribbon he was swinging from. Sherlock wandered off as the acrobat began to _dance _on the ribbon… twenty feet in the air.

It was awhile before I heard a loud clatter from the backstage curtain. _Sherlock_? The acrobat continued rolling down the ribbon. I could've sworn I saw the curtain move… like someone was running into it.

Suddenly a man was thrown from under the backstage curtain and onto the main stage. Sherlock was right behind him. They were fighting. The man produced a knife and began to slash it at Sherlock. Sherlock dodged and jumped away in the direction of the knife. The small audience began to flee from the theatre.

Without thinking, I went charging towards the man and tackled him. I managed to hold his arm with the knife in place on the ground. Suddenly, someone grabbed me from behind and tossed me across the stage. I managed to see the acrobat drop from his ribbon and run out of the theatre.

The man was still attacking Sherlock… but this time he had a wide-bladed sword. I quickly looked around for a weapon of some sort. Instead I found a _broom_... but it was have to do.

I broke off the end with the bristles so that I had a sort of staff to fight with. I charged at the man and wildly swung the stick. It hit the man in the head. As soon as it made contact, it snapped in two. Just great.

The man turned to me and swung the sword. I ducked and threw myself at his torso, sending him back into the wall. Sherlock quickly kicked the sword out of the man's hand in the commotion.

Before I could stop myself, I began mindlessly punching the man.

"Alice, that's enough." Sherlock said.

I didn't want to stop.

"Alice."

I couldn't stop.

"Alice!"

Sherlock dragged me off of the man and held me back. I looked at the man. His face was all cut and bloodied. Sherlock pulled me around and held onto my shoulders.

"Alice, we need to get out of here. Come on!" he said.

I nodded weakly and allowed Sherlock to take my hand and lead me out of the theatre. Pete ran after us.

I was terrified. I couldn't stop. I wasn't able to stop myself…

We were back at Scotland Yard. We were all gathered in Dimmock's office. Pete just kinda sat in the corner and observed.

"I sent a couple of cars. The old hall is totally deserted." Dimmock sighed.

"Look, I saw the mark at the circus. That tattoo that we saw on the two bodies: the mark of the Tong." Sherlock said.

"Lukis and Van Coon were part of a smuggling operation. Now, one of them stole something when they were in China; something valuable." I added.

Sherlock leaned forward on Dimmock desk, "These circus performers were gang members sent here to get it back."

Dimmock looked between us in confusion.

"Get _what_ back?"

"We don't know." I admitted picking at some of the dried blood, from the man, off my knuckles.  
>Dimmock scoffed, "You don't know… Mr. Holmes, I've done everything you asked. Lestrade, he seems to think your advice is worth something. I gave the order for a raid. Please tell me I'll have <em>something<em> to show for it other than a massive bill for overtime."

Sherlock and I gave each other the same look. We had to figure this thing out.

We were all back at 221B. I was shocked that Pete hadn't run off earlier. All three of us dumped out coats on the couch.

"They'll all be back in China by tomorrow." I sighed.

Sherlock was back in front of his mirror. I saw Pete looking at all the crates in confusion.

"No, they won't leave without what they came for. We need to find their hide-out," he paused and leaned in closer to the pictures, "Somewhere in this message it _must_ tell us.

"Well, I think perhaps I should leave you to it." Pete said quietly."

I looked at him worriedly, "No, no, you don't have to go. You can stay."  
>"Yes, it would be better to study if you left now." Sherlock protested.<br>Pete raised his eyebrows and looked at me.

"He's kidding. Please stay if you'd like."

Pete looked at Sherlock nervously. I could tell that he knew that Sherlock didn't approve of him.

"Is it just me, or is anyone else starving?" he eventually asked.

Sherlock sighed and mumbled something under his breath. I wandered into the kitchen through the pathway we had managed to create from the door to the mirror and the kitchen. The stupid crates were piled up everywhere.

I opened the fridge and found… nothing. It was nearly completely empty except for a few cans of orange soda and root beer. Oh and there was a glass jar filled with… _tongues?_… too. I sighed and looked through some of the cupboard. I was still aware of Sherlock and Pete in the other room though.

"So this is what you do, you and Alice? You solve puzzles for a living?" Pete asked.

"Consulting detective." Sherlock corrected.

I found a jar of pickled onions on one of the shelves. I cautiously opened the jar and took a small sniff. I then proceeded to gag and throw the jar into the nearest garbage bin. Pickles onions are _evil_!

"What are these squiggles?" Pete asked later on.

"They're numbers. An ancient Chinese dialect."

There was less annoyance in Sherlock's voice when he explained.

"Oh, right! Yeah, well, of course I should have known that." Pete chuckled.  
>Suddenly, Mrs. Hudson walked into the kitchen through the side door.<p>

"I've done punch, and a bowl of nibbles." She whispered placing a tray full of food on the table

I smiled, "Mrs Hudson, you're a _saint_!"

She laughed softly, "If it was Monday, I'd have been to the supermarket!"

"No, thank you! _Thank_ you!" I said.

"And I like that boy. I mean he's no _Sherlock_, but you're cute together." She added before exiting.

When I walked back into the living room, Sherlock looked like he wanted to strangle Pete, who had taken a picture off of the mirror and was looking at it.

"So these numbers are a cipher?"

"Exactly." Sherlock said tensely.

"And each pair of numbers is a word?"

Sherlock glanced over at Pete in shock.

"How did you know that?"

_"_Well, two words have already been translated, here."

Sherlock ripped the picture out of Pete's hand.

"Alice, Alice, look at this." Sherlock breathed.

I walked over and took the picture from him. There was a word written beside each letter.

"Soo Lin at the museum… she started to translate the code for us. We didn't see it!" I gasped.

"'NINE' and 'MILL'." Sherlock read.

"Nine million quid. For what?" I asked.

Sherlock walked back over to the couch and began pulling on his coat and scarf.

"We need to know the end of this sentence."

"And where are you going?" I asked.

"To the museum. To the restoration room… We must have been staring right at it!" he said.

"At what? The book?"

"Yes Alice. The _book, _the key to cracking the cipher!"

He walked back over and snatched the picture out of my hand

"Soo Lin used it to do this! Whilst we were running around the gallery, she started to translate the code. It must be on her desk."

"I'm coming with you." I said.

Sherlock stopped me before I could move an inch. He held my chin and looked at my face.

"No, you're exhausted. Look at yourself. Stay here. Have a nice dinner with _him_," he glanced at Pete with disapproval, "If I find anything, I'll text you."

With that he hurried out the door left the flat.

Pete and I were now sitting in the kitchen.

"So, you and Sherlock share this flat?" Pete asked.

I nodded, "Yep."

"Did you two ever…" he began.

I rolled my eyes as I cut him off, "No! We never dated. We're just friends."

I knew that I sounded annoyed.

"Right." He said quietly.

We sat in silence for a moment.

"So, it's just going to be a quiet night here?"

I nodded tiredly.

_"_I mean, I'd love to go out of an evening and wrestle a few Chinese gangsters, you know."

I smirked, "Ha, ha."

I thought for a moment.

"Um, I could order takeout." I suggested as I began to look though a pile of papers for some sort of menu.

Sherlock and I usually ordered takeout. We had a whole stack of menus around the flat somewhere.

I finally found one for a Chinese restaurant shoved half under a pile of books on the desk. I called in our order then I waited in the kitchen with Pete. We had begun to drink the punch and eat the stuff Mrs. Hudson had made. I loved that woman!

After about fifteen minutes, there was a knock on the door.

"Okay, that was quick." I laughed as I headed over to the door.

"Do you want me to lay the table?" Pete asked.

"Yeah, there are trays in one of the cupboards!"

I opened the front door and was met with a man wearing a jacket with the hood pulled up. I pulled twenty pounds out of my pocket.

"Hi! How much?" I asked.

"Do you have it?" the man asked.

I stared at him blankly.

"Sorry. What?"

"Do you have the treasure?"

My eyes widened. Oh no. I tried slamming the door in the man's face, but he stopped it with his foot and barged inside.

"What's going on?" Pete called worriedly.

I tried swinging at the man, but he kicked me into a pile of crates. Books fell everywhere around me. I saw Pete run into the room. The man produced a pistol from his jacket and hit Pete on the side of the head with it. He fell on the ground in an unconscious heap.

Next thing I knew, the pistol came in contact with my face. And everything went black…


	10. The Blind Banker: Part 5

I groaned as my eyes slowly opened. I was tied to a chair. If it weren't for the couple of candles scattered around me, I would've been plunged into complete darkness. I was in a sort of cave.

Suddenly, someone came into view. It was the woman from the circus. The one with the painted face.

"'A book is like a magic garden carried in your pocket'."

That's when I noticed Pete. He was gagged and tied to a similar chair just a few yards away.

"Chinese proverb, Mrs. Holmes." The woman smiled.

"What? I'm not a Holmes." I said.

The woman chuckled.

"Forgive me if I do not take your word for it."

She suddenly reached into my hoodie's pocket and pulled out a card.

"Debit card, name of S. Holmes."

I sighed sadly. I had Sherlock's debit card. I had taken it before we had first gone to the bank.

"Yes. That's not actually mine. He lent that to me.

"A check for five thousand pounds made out in the name of Mr. Sherlock Holmes." She added as she continued to search through my pockets.

"Yeah, he gave me that to look after."

"Tickets from the theatre, collected by you, name of Holmes."

I glared up at her.

"We are aware that you share an apartment together. You are never seen without this Mr. Holmes. And earlier, when you talked about him… 'I am Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone'… you sounded like you had had that conversation before. Obviously you two are together."

I sighed. Why? I didn't even bother responding.

"I am Shan." The woman said.

"_You're_ Shan?" I asked.

"Three times we tried to kill you and your companion, Mr. Holmes. What does it tell you when an assassin cannot shoot straight? It tells you that they're not really trying."

I nodded.

"Well, obviously."

She chuckled, "Listen to you! You even talk like him. All I wonder is how long you two have been together."

She produced a pistol from somewhere on her and pointed it at me head. I didn't flinch. I just sat there and stared up at Shan and the barrel of the gun.

"Not blank bullets now. If we wanted to kill you, Mr. Holmes, we would have done it by now. We just wanted to make you inquisitive."

She put the gun down and leaned in closer so that our faces were just inches apart.

"Do you have it? The treasure." She asked quietly.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I would prefer to make certain."

She turned around and pulled the sheet covering up something in the room. And it was the same crossbow from the performance earlier. Oh great.

_"_Everything in the West has its price. And the price for _his_ life," she pointed over to Pete, "is information."

Two men appeared from the shadows and picked up Pete in the chair and moved him in front of the crossbow.

"Sorry!" I called to Pete.

He began mumbling something through his gag. I couldn't understand him, but I was pretty sure it was very colorful language.

"Where's the hairpin?" Shan asked me.

I stared at her blankly.

"The Empress pin valued at nine million sterling. We already had a buyer in the West; and then one of our people was greedy. He took it, brought it back to London and you, Mrs. Holmes, have been searching."

"Okay, listen to me. I'm not married to Sherlock Holmes. You _have_ to believe me. I haven't found whatever it is you're looking for."

Shan smirked, "I need a volunteer from the audience!"

I glared at her.

"Ah, thank you, sir. Yes, you'll do very nicely." She said looking at Pete.

She produced a knife and began to tap on the sandbag above the metal cup on the crossbow.

_"_Ladies and gentlemen. From the distant moonlit shores of NW1, we present for your pleasure Mrs. Holmes' handsome companion in a death-defying act." She announced.

"Stop." I said.

She walked over to Pete and pulled his chin up so he was looking at her.

"You've seen the act before. How dull for you. You know how it ends."

"I'm not married to Sherlock Holmes. I don't know where your precious hairpin is. Now let me go." I said slowly.

"I don't believe you." Shan said.

"You should, you know."

The voice came from deeper in the tunnel we were in. It belonged to Sherlock.

"Sherlock Holmes would never marry someone like her at all."

I smirked. Oh Sherlock.

"How would _you_ describe me, Alice? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?" he continued.

"Late?" I offered.

Shan pointed her pistol in the direction of Sherlock's echoing voice.

"That's a semi-automatic. If you fire it, the bullet will travel at over a thousand meters per second." Sherlock told Shan.

"Well?"

"Well the radius curvature of these walls is nearly four metres. If you miss, the bullet will ricochet. Could hit _anyone_. Might even bounce off the tunnel and hit _you."_

There was absolutely no light in the tunnel. Sherlock could be anywhere. Suddenly, Shan took her knife and slashed open the sandbag. I saw Sherlock slowly creep up behind Pete's chair and begin to untie some of his bonds.

Suddenly, a man appeared behind Sherlock and wrapped a red scarf around his neck. He looped it around twice more. Sherlock gasped for breath. I tried struggling against the ropes tied around me, but it was no use. I shrugged and pushed myself on the floor. I landed on my side and began to slowly wiggle my way over to the crossbow.

With one last flail, I managed to kick one of the crossbows legs off. It shifted right as the arrow was shot. It hit the man who was strangling Sherlock in the chest. Sherlock quickly shoved the man away and pulled the scarf off of his neck. He gasped for air as he began to finish untying Pete.

"It's all right." Sherlock said as Pete made exasperated noises through his gag.

Once Pete was untied, Sherlock came over to me.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yeah." I croaked.

Within a matter of minutes, all of the ropes had been unknotted and I was free. I wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and hugged him.  
>"Thanks."<p>

He awkwardly patted my back.

"Sure."

I glanced over at Pete.

"Don't worry. Next date won't be like this.

The police arrived soon after that. Shan had managed to escape as Sherlock was being suffocated and I was flailing on the floor. Pete had left before the police arrived. The whole thing had really shaken him up.

"We'll just slip off. No need to mention us in your report." Sherlock said when we ran into Dimmock.

"Mr. Holmes…"

Sherlock cut him off, "I have high hopes for you, Inspector. A glittering career."

"I go where you point me."

Sherlock smirked, "Exactly.

The next morning, I woke up in my bed back at 221B. Sleep had never felt so good! I trudged down to the main room. Sherlock was in the kitchen reading over some more of his notes from the case. I poured myself a cup of tea and sat across from him

"So. What about that nine mil?" I asked.

"'Nine million for jade pin. Dragon den, black Tramway'. An instruction to all their London operatives." He said.

I nodded.

"A message, what they were trying to reclaim."

"The jade pin?" I asked.

"Worth nine million pounds. Bring it to the Tramway, their London hideout."

"How's a _hairpin_ worth nine million pounds?" I asked.

Sherlock glanced up at me.

"It depends who owned it."

We were back at the bank again to report to Sebastian.

"Two operatives based in London. They travel over to Dalian to smuggle those vases. One of them helps himself to something: a little hairpin." Sherlock said, laying out the scene for me.

Oh he did love being dramatic.

"Eddie Van Coon was the thief. _He_ stole the treasure when he was in China."

"How do you know it was Van Coon, not Lukis? Even the killer didn't know that." I asked.

"Because of the soap."

I stared at him in confusion. _Soap_?

We separated. I went to Sebastian's office while Sherlock went back to Van Coon's office. He said that he needed to talk to someone. Sebastian was writing us a check for twenty-thousand pounds.

"He really climbed up onto the balcony?" Sebastian asked, handing me the check.

I nodded, "Yep! Nail a plank across the window and all your problems are over."

Sebastian looked slightly annoyed. Suddenly, there was a shriek from one of the cubicles outside.

"Nine million?" the voice demanded happily.

I guess Sherlock had just informed the lucky person with the hairpin of its value.

The next morning, Sherlock and I were just bumming around in the apartment. Sherlock was reading the newspaper in his chair and I was sprawled out on the couch again.

"Over a thousand years old and it's sitting on her bedside table every night." I finally said.

The great news about the hairpin's value had been all over the papers. Apparently, Van Coon had given it to his PA without knowing of its worth.

"He didn't know its value; didn't know why they were chasing him." Sherlock said.

"Should've just got her a lucky cat." I smirked.

Sherlock glanced up at me. He looked amused but he refused to smile.

"You _mind_, don't you? That General Shan escaped. It's not enough that we got her two henchmen." I asked.

"It must be a vast network, Alice; thousands of operatives. You and I, we barely scratched the surface."

"You cracked the code, though, Sherlock. And maybe Dimmock can track down all of them now that _he_ knows it." I added.

"No. No. I cracked _this_ code; all the smugglers have to do is pick up another book." He replied.

I stood up and looked out the window. Suddenly, I saw a man by one of the mailboxes. He had a can of spray paint in one hand. He began to draw a small symbol on the metal mailbox in the red paint. I shook my head and closed the curtains. Nope. Nope. Nope.

The sound of police sirens faintly wailed outside. Yep, just another normal day at 221B.


	11. The Great Game: Part 1

I was ripped from my deep slumber as a gun shot rang out in the flat. Within seconds I was on my feet. I quickly grabbed the baseball bat that I kept hidden under my bed and slowly padded downstairs.

There was another gun shot as I began to make my decent down the stairs. I carefully pushed open the door to the main flat so I could just peek inside. When I saw who was in the flat, I immediately kicked the door open.

Sherlock was sat in his armchair, a pistol in his hand. His arm was propped up on the arm of the chair and was aimed at the wall. I glanced at the wall. There was a yellow smiley face spray painted on the wallpaper… with two bullet holes in it.

Without even looking, Sherlock pressed the trigger and shot two more bullets into the wall. Poor wall. He glanced at the wall and fired two more shots.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" I demanded.

"Bored." He muttered.

"What?"

"Bored!" he shouted.

He sprang up out of the chair and began, _dramatically_, releasing off various shots at the smiley face.

"Bored! Bored!" he growled angrily as he shot.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you stop right now!" I screamed.

Sherlock stared at me in horror.

"How do you know my full name? Did you look at my birth certificate?" he demanded.

"Maybe."  
>He rolled his eyes and stared at the wall with a blank expression on his face. I stepped forward and held out my hand in front of him. He lazily plopped the gun into my hand. I yanked out the loaded cartridge and put both pieces on the kitchen table.<p>

Sherlock sighed, "Don't know what's got into the criminal classes. Good job I'm not one of them."

"So you take it out on the wall?"

Sherlock walked closer to the wall and ran a finger around the paint of the smiley face.

"Oh, the wall had it coming."

With that, he dramatically threw himself down on the sofa. I rolled my eyes.

"What about that Russian case?" I asked.

"Belarus. Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time."

"Ah, shame!" I said with fake sadness.

I walked over to the fridge. It was three in the morning and I was hungry.

"Do you want anything?" I asked.

When I opened the fridge, I was met by a head. A _human head _was just sitting there on the shelf. I didn't make a single noise, I just stared at it. And its dead, unblinking eyes stared back at me.

"Um, Sherlock… Why is the Tabasco sauce next to the severed head?"

"Just tea for me, thanks." He replied quietly.

I nodded. Okay… Okay… I could do this. I was fine. I pulled out a can of orange soda from the shelf next to the head. Then I slammed the door shut and began to start making tea.

"You don't mind, do you?" Sherlock asked awkwardly.

"Nah, I'm fine."

"I got it from Bart's Morgue. I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death." He added.

"That's nice." I replied.

It was silent for a few minutes as I finished making the tea. I walked back into the main room and handed Sherlock the mug. I had purposely given him one of my mugs… more specifically, the mug covered in logos of the band Panic! At the Disco.

Sherlock stared at the mug for a moment. He absolutely hated that band. He glanced from the mug up at me. I smiled and took a swig of my soda. He sighed and reluctantly drank from the mug.

"I see you've written up the taxi driver case." He said.

Oh right. So I had finally started writing that blog of mine. I decided to write about finished cases. It was actually really fun!

"'A Study in Pink'... Nice." He added picking up a magazine from the coffee table and flipping through it.

I shrugged, "Well, you know, pink lady, pink case, pink phone… there _was_ a lot of pink. Did you like it?"

I sat on the edge of the coffee table. He didn't even look at me.

"Erm, NO."

I blinked. Okay.

"Why not? I thought you'd be _flattered_."

His head whipped around in my direction as he glared at me.

"Flattered?" he began to recite a few sentences from what I had written, "'Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.'"

I bit the inside of my lip. Okay. So I may have ranted just a bit in the blog.

"Oh, wait. You meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a _nice_ way! Look, it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister or who's sleeping with who!"

I smirked.

"Whether the Earth goes round the sun?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed.

"Not that again. It's not _important_." He said.

I nodded, still smirking in amusement.

"Okay… It's okay that a seven year old knows more than you."

He glared at me.

"Well, if I ever did know it, I've deleted it. "

"Deleted?"

He turned on the couch so that he was sitting up and facing me.

"Listen. This is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful, _really_ useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?"

"But it's the _solar system!" _I scoffed.

"Oh, hell! What does that _matter_?! So we go round the Sun! If we went round the Moon, or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference. All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots."

He put his head in his hands and ruffles his curly hair.

"Put _that_ in your blog. Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world." He added.

With that, he tossed the magazine on the coffee table and lied back down on the sofa. He curled up and turned his back to me. I had to smile. He was such a drama queen.

I sighed and started to make my way towards the door. Sherlock heard me move and glanced back at me.

"Where are you going?

"Out." I said pulling on my hoodie.

Suddenly, Mrs. Hudson walked into the flat. She was holding several grocery bags. She looked from me in my hoodie to Sherlock on the couch.

"Have you two had a little domestic?" she asked.

I rolled my eyes.

"Good night, Mrs. Hudson."

I turned back to Sherlock.

"Good night!" I shouted dramatically at him.

Then I turned on my heels and left the flat.

I woke up the next morning from the sunlight filtering in through the apartment's window. I was at Pete's. Yeah, after the Van Coon and Lukis case, Pete and I had remained friends… but he was never going to date me again. It was alright though.

"Morning!" I heard Pete call from the kitchen.

I glanced back at him. He was wearing a loose t-shirt and pajama bottoms. He walked over with two mugs of tea.

"How'd you sleep?" he asked, handing me a mug.

"Fine. Thanks for letting me stay here, by the way."

He took a sip of his tea, "Sure. Anytime."

I turned on the TV. It was on the news. There was some big story about an explosion that happened last night..

"_Now back now to our main story. There's been a massive explosion in central London_." The newscaster said.

I glanced at the bottom bar at the bottom of the screen. It read:

House Destroyed on Baker Street."

I nearly spat my tea all over the floor.

"_As yet, there are no reports of any casualties, and the police are unable to say if there is any suspicion of terrorist involvement_." The newscaster continued.

"I have to go!" I said, quickly putting down my mug and running to find my hoodie.

"Wait, Alice, is that your apartment?" Pete asked.

"Yes!" I screamed worriedly as I ran as fast as I could out of the apartment.

I would text Pete later. Right now I _had_ to get to Sherlock!

I quickly ran from the Baker Street Tube stop to the flat. After I got passed the police officers outside, I ran up the stairs. When I opened the door to the flat, there was Sherlock. He was wearing his usual suit now, and not pouting in the corner in his robe. In his lap was his violin.

In my armchair, across was Sherlock, was Mycroft. The apartment felt calm. The two large windows had been boarded up from the explosion. They both looked up and stared at me when I opened the door.

"Alice." Sherlock said.

"I just heard about it on the news. Are you okay?" I asked.

"Of course. It was a gas leak apparently."  
>I nodded.<p>

"Good."

I glanced over at Mycroft awkwardly. I still wasn't too crazy about him. He simply smiled at me. It didn't look _as_ fake as Sherlock's smiles, but it was fake nonetheless.

Sherlock went back to fiddling with his violin's strings.

"I can't." he told his brother.

"Can't?" Mycroft asked.

"The stuff I've got on is just too big. I can't spare the time."

"Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance." Mycroft insisted.

Sherlock sighed as began staring off into space as he spoke.

"How's the diet?"

He changed the subject.

"_Fine_."

He looked calm, but I knew that Mycroft was just seething under at his younger brother.

He glanced back at me, "Perhaps _you_ can get through to him, Alice. I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent."

"If you're so keen, why don't _you_ investigate it?" Sherlock snapped.

"No-no-no-no-no. I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time. Not with the Korean elections so," he paused, "Well, you don't need to know about that, do you?"

He smiled at me.

"Besides, a case like this requires… legwork." He added.

Sherlock plucked one of his violin's strings loudly in irritation.

He turned towards me, "How's Pete, Alice? Did you two sleep well?"

"Sofa, Sherlock. She slept on the sofa while Pete got his bed." Mycroft corrected.

"Oh yes, of course."

I looked back and forth from the Holmes brothers. Oh great! There were _two _of them now!

"Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became… _pals_."

Sherlock glared at his brother.

"What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine."

"Well I'm never bored." I mumbled.

"Good! That's good, isn't it?" Mycroft exclaimed.

He suddenly changed the subject and picked up a folder from the desk between him and Sherlock. He handed me the folder. I slowly opened it and shuffled through some of the papers. It was a case.

"Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends. A civil servant, found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in." Mycroft explained.

I nodded, "So what? He jumped in front of the train?" I asked.

"Seems the logical assumption… _but _that's not why I came. The M.O.D. is working on a new missile defense system – the Bruce-Partington Program, it's called. The plans for it were on a memory stick."

I smirked, "Oh yeah, that's smart."

"It's not the only copy. But it _is_ secret. And missing."

"Like _top_ secret?" I asked.

"Very. We think West must have taken the memory stick. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands."

Mycroft looked back at his younger brother.

"You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you."

I could tell from the look on Sherlock's face that he was about to snap.

"Sherlock, breathe." I sighed tiredly.

The sociopath slowly took a deep breath before looking at his brother.

"I'd like to see you try." He said calmly.

"Think it over." Mycroft replied.

He sounded very cross. Mycroft stood up and walked over to me.

"Good-bye Alice." He said, sticking out his hand.

I shook his hand awkwardly.

He smiled creepily, "See you _very_ soon."

When he exited out the door, I shivered. I couldn't say a word or do anything. Mycroft _knew_.

I sat down on the couch and picked up a small bottle of bubble soap (we had in the apartment for some reason).

"Why'd you lie?" I asked, blowing a few bubbles.

Sherlock and I watched them as they floated around the room and popped when they came in contact with objects.

"You don't have a single case. That's why the wall got abused. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?" I asked.

Sherlock shrugged, "Why shouldn't I?"

"Oh! I see! Sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere."

Before he had a chance to reply, his phone began to ring from next to him on the table. He quickly answered it.

"Sherlock Holmes." He said into the phone.

He was silent for a few minutes as he listened.

He suddenly smirked, "Of course. How could I refuse?"

He turned off his phone and pocketed it.

He turned to me, "Lestrade. I've been summoned. Coming?"

"Of course." I said.

He got up and began to pull on his trench coat.

He smiled at me, "I'd be lost without my blogger."

We took a cab down to Scotland Yard. Lestrade was leading us to his office.

"You like the funny cases, don't you? The surprising ones." Lestrade was saying.

"Obviously." Sherlock replied.

"You've love _this_. That explosion…"

Sherlock nodded, "Gas leak, yes?"

"No."

"No?" Sherlock and I harmonized.

Lestrade smiled, "No. Made to _look_ like one."

He opened the door to his office.

"Hardly anything left of the place except a strong box… a _very_ strong box and inside it was this." Lestrade explained.

"You haven't opened it?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade picked up an envelope off of his desk and handed it to Sherlock.

"It's addressed to you, isn't it?"

Sherlock turned over the envelope and began to examine it. The envelope had Sherlock's name written on it in neat, cursive letters.

"We've X-rayed it. It's not booby-trapped." Lestrade added.

"How reassuring." Sherlock muttered.

He walked over to lamp and turned it on. He held the envelope up in the light.

"Nice stationery. Bohemian. From the Czech Republic. No fingerprints?"

Lestrade shook his head, "No"

"She used a fountain pen. A Parker Duofold… iridium nib." He said quieter.

"She?" I asked.

"Obviously."

I nodded. Right. _Obviously_. Sherlock slowly opened the envelope and pulled out… a cell phone? It was a hot pink cell phone. I had seen a similar before… recently.

"Is that supposed to be the phone from _the_ _case_?" I asked.

"What, from the Study in Pink?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock nodded, "Well, obviously it's not the same phone but it's supposed to look like…" he suddenly stopped himself.

He stared at Lestrade in shock.

"_The Study in Pink_? You read her blog?" he asked.

"Course I read her blog! We _all_ do. Do you _really_ not know that the Earth goes round the Sun?" Lestrade asked.

Someone snickered at the door. It was Donovan. Sherlock glared at her.

"It isn't the same phone. This one's brand new. Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it _look_ like the same phone, which means your blog has a far wider readership."

He turned on the phone.

"_You have one new message_." The phone blurted.

I sighed. I _hated_ Siri. The phone beeped various times.

"Well is that it?" I asked.

"No. That's _not_ it." Sherlock said.

I could already tell that he had an idea of what to do next. Suddenly, the phone beeped again. A picture appeared under messages. Lestrade and I glanced over Sherlock's shoulders to look at the picture. It was an unfurnished room with a lonely fireplace. The wallpaper in the room was peeling and there was a mirror propped up against one room. Everything in the picture was dusty. It looked as if someone hadn't lived in it for a few years.

"What the hell are we supposed to make of that? An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!" Lestrade exclaimed.

"It's a warning." Sherlock whispered.

"How?" I asked in the same quiet tone as he was suing..

"Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that. Five pips. They're warning us it's gonna happen again." He smiled down at the picture, "And I've seen this place before."

He began to leave the office. Lestrade quickly grabbed his coat as he followed the sociopath through the building.

"A little more detail, please." I said.

Sherlock raised his hands up dramatically.

"_BOOM!"_

We took a cab back to 221B Baker Street. Lestrade and I followed Sherlock into the flat. He had Mrs. Hudson lead us downstairs to the basement. It turned out that there was another apartment below us: 221A. Sherlock began to unlock the door.

"You had a look, didn't you, Sherlock, when you first came to see about your flat." Mrs. Hudson commented.

"The door's been opened recently." Sherlock replied.

"No, can't be. That's the only key."

Sherlock pulled the padlock off of the door and began to unlock the actual lock on the door.

"I can't get anyone interested in this flat. It's the damp, I expect. That's the curse of basements." Mrs. Hudson sighed.

Sherlock finally got the door open and Sherlock and Lestrade burst inside. I quickly hurried in after them.

It was a strange flat. We had to walk down a small flight of stairs before we actually got into the main living room. It looked exactly as the picture. There was only one difference. In the center of the room was a pair of sneakers.

"Shoes?" I asked.

Sherlock began to walk closer to the sneakers.

"Sherlock, remember, he's a bomber." I warned.

Sherlock glanced back at me and nodded. He slowly crouched down next to the shoes. He was leaning closer to them, when suddenly there was a sudden ring.

All three of us jumped. Sherlock slowly pulled the pink phone out of his pocket. It was ringing. He stood up and slowly answered it. He put it on speaker phone.

"Hello?" he said softly.

A woman shakily replied, "_H-Hello, sexy."_

She sounded terrified.

"Who's this?" Sherlock asked.

"_I've sent you a l-little puzzle. J-Just to s-say hi."_

The woman was crying.

"Who's talking? Why are you crying?"

"_I-I'm not crying, I'm typing. And this s-stupid bitch is r-reading it out._"

Sherlock stared at the wall thoughtfully.

"_Twelve hours to solve my p-puzzle, Sherlock, or I-I'm going to be so naughty._"  
>The line went dead.<p>

Sherlock and I were at St. Bart's with the shoes from 221A. Lestrade had gone back to Scotland Yard to work out more details on the bombing. We had bee in one of the labs running tests on the shoes all afternoon.

"Who do you think was typing?" I suddenly blurted.

Sherlock glanced up from his microscope.

"You know, the woman. She said that she was reading what the bomber was typing."

"The woman is just a hostage. She doesn't matter. No leads there."

I rolled my eyes.

"I wasn't talking about leads! I meant, who the hell do you think is behind all this?"

"No idea." Sherlock replied.

He suddenly groaned in frustration. He had been using a scanner to try to figure out what substances were on the shoes. It hadn't been helping. Suddenly Sherlock's cell phone buzzed.

"Pass me my phone." He said.

"Where is it?" I asked.

"Jacket."

I sighed and slowly shook my head. _Seriously_? I walked over to my flatmate and roughly jammed my hand into his jacket, looking for the phone. He glanced up at me taken aback.

"Careful."

I finally found the right pocket and yanked it out. I checked who was texting.

"It's your brother."

"Delete it."

"Sherlock." I warned.

"Missile plans are out of the country now. Nothing we can do about it." He replied.

I looked at the message. It read:

RE: BRUCE-PARTINGTON PLANS  
>Any progress on Andrew West's death?<br>Mycroft

"Well, Mycroft thinks there is. He's texted you eight times." I commented as I skimmed through the messages on Sherlock phone.

Sherlock sighed, "Why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?

I looked up, "What?"

"Mycroft never texts if he can talk." He paused and turned to me, "Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this. Why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?"

He turned back to his microscope.

"Ah!" he suddenly exclaimed.

He was excited. I smiled. The scanner had _finally _identified something! Suddenly, the door to the lab opened and Molly walked in.

She smiled, "Any luck?"

"Oh, yes!" Sherlock said happily.

Suddenly, a man peeked into the room. I had never seen him before. He was about Sherlock's age, and was dressed casually.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't…" he began, realizing that we were working.

Molly turned around and her smile widened, "Jim! Hi!"

She took one of his hands and beckoned him inside.

"Come in! Come in!"

Sherlock glanced over at the both of them for a moment before going back to his microscope. I smiled at our new visitor.

"Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes."

Jim nodded as he saw Sherlock.

"And this is Alice Scotts."

Jim gave me a friendly smile.

"Hi." He said.

That's when I noticed, that he wasn't interested in meeting me at all. His eyes were glued on Sherlock's back. He was almost looking at Sherlock… _admiringly_.

"So _you're_ Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?" he asked, walked closer to Sherlock and I.

"Jim works in I.T. upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance." Molly giggled.

I was happy for Molly. She _really _needed to get over her crush on Sherlock. Sherlock glanced up at Jim and then immediately returned his gaze to his microscope.

"Gay." He muttered.

Molly's smiled faded.

"Sorry, what?"

"Hey." Sherlock '_corrected_'.

"Hey." Jim replied.

He was grinning like an idiot. Jim suddenly knocked off one of the empty preti dish from the desk.

"Sorry! Sorry!" he giggled nervously as he picked it up.

Sherlock was staring at Jim with distaste. Jim awkwardly made his way back over to Molly.

"Well, I'd better be off. I'll see you at the Fox, about six-ish?" he said to Molly.

"Yeah!" she said.

"Bye."

"Bye"

He looked back over at Sherlock.

"It was nice to meet you."

Sherlock didn't reply.

"You too!" I chimed in.

Jim quickly left.

"What do you mean, gay? We're together." Molly said once he was gone.

Sherlock looked up and folded his hands on the table.

"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

"Two and a half!" she snapped.

Sherlock shrugged, "Three."

"He's _not_ gay."

Molly looked close to tears.

"Why do you have to spoil everything? He's _not_."

Sherlock scoffed, "With that level of personal grooming?"

"What, just because he puts a bit of product in his hair? Oh please. He's just trying to look presentable."

Sherlock glared at me.

"_I _wash my hair. There's a difference. Look, he had tinted eyelashes and there were clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines. Then there's his underwear."

"His _underwear_?" Molly demanded.

"Visible above the waistline. _Very_ visible. Very particular brand."

Sherlock picked up the Petri dish Jim had dropped and smirked.

"That, plus the _extremely_ suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here, and I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain."

Molly glared at Sherlock before she ran from the room. Oh Sherlock.

"Why'd you have to do that?" I asked.

Sherlock sighed, "Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?"

"_Kinder?_ No, _that_ was not kind at all."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and placed one of the sneakers in front of me.

"Go on, then."

I just stared at the shoe.

"You know what I do. Off you go."

"What?" I asked.

"An outside eye, a second opinion. It's very useful to me."

I laughed, "Yeah, right!"

"_Really."_

I sighed and picked up one of the shoes.

"Well they're shoes. Sneakers." I said obviously.

"Good."

I glared at Sherlock. He just shrugged.

"I don't know. They look new, but gosh, the style looks so 80's."

Sherlock nodded.

"Okay. Well they're huge, so I'd assume they belong to an adult…"

I glanced at the inside. There were smudged letters on the inside.

"…_But _adults don't usually write their name inside they're shoes."

"Excellent. What else?" Sherlock asked, satisfied.

"That's it."

"That's it?"

"Yeah. How'd I do? Decent?" I asked.

"Really well, actually. Sure you missed almost everything of importance, but, you know."

Yes, there was the _oh-so-humble _Mr. Holmes. He took the shoe from me.

"The owner loved these. Scrubbed them clean, whitened them where they got discolored. Changed the laces three… no, _four_ times. Even so, there are traces of his flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them, so he suffered from eczema. Shoes are well-worn, more so on the inside, which means the owner had weak arches. British-made, twenty years old. They're not retro, they're original. Limited edition. Two blue stripes, nineteen eighty-nine." He explained, showing me a picture on his phone.

"Then how is there mud on them?" I asked.

"Someone's kept them that way. Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles. Analysis shows it's from Sussex, with London mud overlaying it."

"Explain."

"Pollen. Clear as a map reference to me. South of the river, too. So, the kid who owned these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind."

I nodded. Alright.

"And why would he do that?"

"Something bad happened." Sherlock said quieter.

I stared at the shoes. Okay.

"He _loved_ those shoes, remember. He'd never leave them filthy. Wouldn't leave them go unless he had to. So, a child with big feet gets…"

He stopped himself.

"Oh." He whispered.

"What?" I asked.

"Carl Powers."

"Who?"

"_Carl Powers_, Alice.

I nodded.

"Okay, so? What do you mean?"

"It's where I began."


	12. The Great Game: Part 2

We were back in a cab. Sherlock was staring out the window gloomily as he began to explain.

"1989… a young kid, champion swimmer came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament; drowned in the pool. Tragic accident. You wouldn't know about it. Why should you?

"But _you _remember?" I asked.

"Yes."

I glanced at him, "Why?"

"Nobody thought it was strange. Nobody except me. I was only a kid myself. I read about it in the papers."

I smirked. He sure started young.

"The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out it was too late. But there was something wrong, something I couldn't get out of my head. His shoes." He said.

"His shoes?"

Sherlock sighed, "They weren't there. I made a fuss. I tried to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important. He'd left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes… until now."

We were back at the flat. Sherlock was at the kitchen counter. He had microscopes and tons of science experiments set up on the table. He was running more thorough tests on the sneaker.

I check the clock. Sherlock was given 12 hours to solve the case. We only had six hours left.

I hovered behind Sherlock as I watched him work.

"Is there anything I can help with?" I finally asked.

He didn't respond.

"Please, I want to help. We don't have much time left…"

The buzz of my cell phone made me lose my train of thought. The text read:

Any developments?  
>Mycroft Holmes<p>

I scoffed, "It's your brother. He's texting _me_ now."

Sherlock frowned.

"How does he even know my number?" I added.

"Must be a root canal." Sherlock muttered quietly.

There was silence for a minute.

"Didn't he say 'national importance'?" I blurted.

"How quaint."

"What?"

_"__You_. You're not even from here and you're all about Queen and country."

I rolled my eyes.

"I live here too. You can't just ignore it."

He looked up at me.

"I'm not ignoring it. I'm putting my best man onto it right now."

"Awesome." I smiled.

Suddenly my smile faded.

"Who's your best man?" I asked.

Sherlock smirked at me. I shook my head _no_, but he shook his head _yes_.

About an hour later, I was sitting in an armchair in front of a large desk in an office. Sherlock had sent _me _to talk to his brother. Suddenly, Mycroft walked into the room and sat behind his desk.

"Alice, what a surprise. I hope you haven't been waiting long." He said happily.

I glared at me flatmate's older brother.

"How can I help you?" he asked.

"Sherlock sent me for more information on the stolen missile plans."

Mycroft smiled, "Did he?"

I didn't smile. I _wouldn't _smile for Mycroft Holmes.

"Come Alice, you can talk to me.

"He's investigating right now." I lied.

Mycroft nodded. He seemed satisfied by that answer.  
>"We need to know more about the dead man too." I added after a minute.<p>

Mycroft shrugged, "Oh, that's simple. He was 27 years old. A clerk at Vauxhall Cross, MI6.. He was involved in the Bruce-Partington Program in a minor capacity. Security checks were spotless. No known terrorist affiliations or sympathies."

He paused as if he was thinking of what else to add.

"He was last seen by his fiancée at ten thirty yesterday evening." He finally said.  
>"Right. He was found at Battersea. So he got on the train."<p>

"No." Mycroft replied.

"No?"

"He had an Oyster card… but it hadn't been used."

"What about a train ticket?" I asked.

"There was no ticket on the body."

I leaned forward.

"Then how did he end up with a bashed-in brain on the tracks at Battersea?" I asked.

"That is the question the one I was rather hoping Sherlock would provide an answer to. How's he getting on?" Mycroft said.

"He's fine."

"Fine?"

"He's great! And it's going incredibly well. And he's," I paused, "completely focused on it."

Mycroft eyes me up and down. I couldn't tell if he knew I was lying. After a minute he nodded.

"Good."

I was back at the flat. The sun had set ages ago. We had three hours to go.

Sherlock was still at the kitchen table looking in a microscope. He had papers and failed tests from earlier scattered everywhere. I stood in the frame of the large entryway that separated the living room from the kitchen. I just watched.

Mrs. Hudson quietly walked in with a tray that had two mugs on it. She handed me one before going over and setting the other mug in front of Sherlock.

"Poison." Sherlock suddenly said.

"What you going on about?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

Sherlock suddenly jumped up and slammed his hands down on the counter. Mrs. Hudson flinched and quickly scuttled out of the flat.

"Clostridium botulinum! It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet!" he exclaimed.

I nodded, "Good to know."

He quickly looked up at me.

"Carl Powers!"

"So he was murdered?" I asked.

"Remember the shoelaces? The boy suffered from eczema. It'd be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyses the muscles and he drowns." Sherlock explained quickly.

He was right. I knew about clostridium botulinum. I'd seen it before.

"And why didn't anyone pick up on it?" I asked.

I knew why, but I didn't want him to know that I knew exactly what he was talking about.

"It's virtually undetectable. Nobody would have been looking for it." Sherlock said.

He suddenly walked passed me into the living room. He sat down at his desk and began to type violently on the keyboard. I leaned over his shoulders and watched him.

He went onto his website, _The Science of Deduction_, and began to type a new message. It read:

FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989).

Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221b Baker St.

"But there were still tiny traces of it left inside the trainers from where he put the cream on his feet. That's why they had to go." He said quietly as he posted the message.

"The killer kept the shoes all these years. So he's the bomber?" I clarified uncertainly.

"Yes."

"And are you sure the bomber will see this in time?" I asked.

Suddenly, the pink phone rang from the coffee table. Sherlock jumped up to answer it. He put it on speaker.

"Hello?

"_Well done, you. Come and get me_." The same woman said shakily.

Sherlock practically shouted into the phone, "Where _are_ you? Tell us where you are."

The next day, we were back in Lestrade's office at Scotland Yard. I was sitting in a chair in front of Lestrade's desk while Sherlock paced by the window.. Lestrade was talking about the woman who had been calling us.

"She lives in Cornwall. Two men broke in wearing masks, forced her to drive to the car park and decked her out in enough explosives to take down a house. Told her to phone you. She had to read out from this pager."

He placed the pager the woman had been reading off of on the desk. I quickly snatched it and began examining it.

Sherlock nodded, "And if she deviated by one word, the sniper would set her off."

"Or if you hadn't solved the case." I muttered.

"Oh. Elegant."

"Elegant?" I scoffed.

Sherlock continued to stare out the window.

"But what was the point? Why would anyone _do_ this?" Lestrade asked.

"Oh, I can't be the only person in the world that gets bored." Sherlock mumbled.

Suddenly, the pink cell phone buzzed from Lestrade's desk.

"_You have one new message_." It informed us.

It began beeping again.

"Four beeps." I said.

"First test passed, it would seem. Here's the second." Sherlock replied as he picked up the phone.

A new picture was uploaded on the phone. It was a picture a license plate. You could also see one of the car doors of the empty car opened.

"It's abandoned, wouldn't you say?" Sherlock asked as he stared at the picture.

"I'll see if it's been reported." Lestrade called, practically running out of his office.

Donovan walked in when he left. She was holding another phone.

"Freak, it's for you."

Sherlock quickly took the phone from her and put it on speaker phone.

"Hello?" he asked.

"_It's okay that you've gone to the police_."

It was a man this time.

"Who is this? Is this _you_ again?"

"_But don't rely on them_."

"Clever you, guessing about Carl Powers." Sherlock said.

"_I never liked him_."

Sherlock's jaw clenched.

"_Carl laughed at me, so I stopped him laughing_."

"And you've stolen another voice, I presume." Sherlock added.

"_This is about you and me_."

I could hear the sound of traffic in the background.

"Who _are_ you? What's that noise?"

"_The sounds of life, Sherlock_."

The man's voice was shaking. I could tell he was close to tears.

"_But don't worry I can soon fix that. You solved my last puzzle in nine hours. This time you have eight_."

The line went dead. I stared worriedly at Sherlock. He didn't say anything.

"We've found it!" Lestrade shouted triumphantly as he hurried back into his office.

"The car was hired yesterday morning by an Ian Monkford. Banker of some kind; City boy. Paid in cash.: Told his wife he was going away on a business trip, but he never arrived." He quickly explained, grabbing his coat.

Sherlock began to hurry out of the building. Lestrade was right on his heels. I was behind them, when suddenly I was stopped.

"You're still hanging round him?" Donovan asked.

I nodded.

"Opposites attract, I suppose."

I rolled my eyes, "We're not…"

She cut me off, "You should get yourself a hobby… stamps, maybe. Model trains. Safer."

With that she walked off.

"We're not dating!" I screamed at her.

Then I chased after Lestrade and Sherlock.

We were in a lot behind some old, abandoned buildings near the railroad. We were in front of car. The driver's seat was drenched in blood.

Sherlock was leaning around the blood and was digging around in the glovebox.

"Before you ask, yes, it's Monkford's blood. The DNA checks out." Lestrade said as he looked at the blood distastefully.

"No body?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade shook his head, "Not yet."

"Get a sample sent to the lab."

Sherlock suddenly began to walk away from the car. Lestrade shot me a glance. I shrugged and hurried after my flatmate. He walked over to a woman who was talking to an officer. I didn't have any idea who she was. I awkwardly stood next to Sherlock as he questioned her.

"Mrs. Monkford?" Sherlock began.

She turned around to him. She had been crying.

"Yes? Sorry, but I've already spoken with two policemen."

"We're not police." I said.

Sherlock held out a hand for her to shake. Was he… _crying_?

"Sherlock Holmes. Very old friend of your husband's. We, um, we grew up together." He said.

Mrs. Monkford quickly shook his hand. Sherlock looked like he was about to break down. He was a good actor.

"I'm sorry, who? I don't think he ever mentioned you." Mrs. Monkford asked.

"Oh, he _must_ have done. This is, this is horrible, isn't it? I mean, I just can't believe it. I only saw him the other day. Same old Ian. Not a care in the world."

He gave her a tearful smile.

"Sorry, but my husband has been depressed for months. Who _are_ you?" Mrs. Monkford demanding, crossing her arms over her chest. Sherlock didn't break character though.

"Really strange that he hired a car. Why would he do that? It's a bit suspicious, isn't it?"

"No, it isn't. He forgot to renew the tax on the car, that's all."

"Oh, well, that was Ian! That was Ian all over!"

"No it wasn't." she snapped.

Sherlock immediately stopped crying and dropped the act.

"Wasn't it? Interesting."

Mrs. Monkford glared at Sherlock. He just turned on his heels and walked in the opposite direction. I didn't say anything. I just hurried after him.

"Why did you lie to her?" I asked as we left the crime scene.

"People don't like telling you things, but they love to contradict you. Past tense, did you notice?"

I knitted my eyebrows together, "What?"

"I referred to her husband in the past tense. She joined in. Bit premature – they've only just found the car."

I smiled.

"You think she murdered her husband?"

"Definitely not. That's not a mistake a murderer would make."

"Right. Now where are we off to?"

"Janus Cars."

He handed me a business car.

"Just found this in the glove compartment."

I glanced up at my flatmate and smirked.

We had six hours to go. We were in an office in Janus Cars. The owner sat across from us at his desk. His name was Ewert.

"Can't see how I can help you two." He said.

Sherlock sighed, "Mr. Monkford hired the car from you yesterday."

"Yeah. Lovely motor. Mazda RX-8. Wouldn't mind one of them myself!"

Sherlock pointed out the office window to one of the cars outside.

"Is that one?"

"No, Sherlock, those are Jaguars." I corrected.

Ewert chuckled.

"I can see you're not a car man, Mr. Holmes. Your friend here though…"

I smiled. It was no secret. I loved cars.

"But surely _you_ can afford one. A Mazda, I mean?" Sherlock said.

"Yeah, it's a fair point. But you know how it is: it's like working in a sweetshop. Once you start picking at the liquorices allsorts, when does it all stop, eh?"

"But you didn't know Mr. Monkford?" I asked.

"No, he was just a client. Came in here and hired one of my cars. No idea what happened to him. Poor sod." Ewert replied.

"Nice holiday, Mr. Ewert?" Sherlock suddenly blurted.

"Huh?"

"You've been away, haven't you?"

Ewert's eyes widened.

"Um, no. I-It's the sunbeds, I'm afraid, yeah. Too busy to get away. My wife would love it, though… bit of sun."

He didn't sound very convincing.

"Have you got any change for the cigarette machine?" Sherlock randomly added in.

"What?" I asked.

"Well, I noticed one on the way in and I haven't got any change."

He offered Ewert a Fiver.

"I'm _gasping_."

Ewert pulled put his wallet and began rummaging through it for case.

"No, sorry." He mumbled.

"Oh well. Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Ewert. You've been _very_ helpful. Come along, Alice." He said.

With that he left the office. I turned to Ewert.

"Bye!" I squeaked as I quickly ran after Sherlock.

Sherlock was already halfway down the sidewalk.

"Hey! I've got change!" I said as I caught up with him.

He patted his left forearm.

"Nicotine patches, remember? I'm doing well."

"So why did you go all crazy about change for cigarettes?" I asked.

"I needed to look inside his wallet."

"Ewert's? Why?"

Sherlock smirked.

"Mr. Ewert's a liar."


	13. The Great Game: Part 3

We were back with Monkford's car. The police had moved it from the abandoned lot to an underground car garage.

"How much blood was on that seat, would you say?" Sherlock asked Lestrade.

"How much? About a pint."

"Not 'about'. _Exactly_ a pint. That was their first mistake. The blood's definitely Ian Monkford's but it's been frozen." Sherlock said.

"Frozen?" I asked.

"There are clear signs. I think Ian Monkford gave a pint of his blood some time ago and that's what they spread on the seats."

"_Who_ did it then? Janus Cars?" I joked.

Sherlock smirked at me.

"Precisely. The clue's in the name."

"The god with two faces." Lestrade said.

"Exactly. They provide a very special service. If you've got any kind of a problem, money troubles, bad marriage, whatever, Janus Cars will help you disappear. Ian Monkford was up to his eyes in some kind of trouble. Financial, at a guess; he's a banker. Couldn't see a way out. But if he were to vanish, if the car he hired was found abandoned with his blood all over the driver's seat."

"So where's he now?" I asked.

Sherlock sighed as he slammed the car door shut. "Columbia."  
>"<em>Columbia<em>?!" Lestrade blurted.

"Mr. Ewert of Janus Cars had a twenty thousand Columbian peso note in his wallet. Quite a bit of change, too. He told us he hadn't been abroad recently, but when I asked him about the cars, I could see his tan line clearly. No-one wears a shirt on a sunbed. That, plus his arm." Sherlock explained.

"His arm?" Lestrade asked.

He always had a hard time believing Sherlock.

"Kept scratching it. Obviously irritating him, and bleeding. Why? Because he'd recently had a booster jab. Hep-B, probably. Difficult to tell at that distance. Conclusion… he'd just come back from settling Ian Monkford into his new life in Columbia. Mrs. Monkford cashes in the life insurance and she splits it with Janus Cars."

Sherlock sounded bored as he finished.

"Mrs. Monkford?" Lestrade asked.

"Oh yes. She's in on it too. Now go and arrest them, Inspector. That's what you do best."

Lestrade nodded.

"Yeah, alright."

Sherlock turned to me.

"_We_ need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved."

He began to walk towards the exit. I trailed behind him. He was loving this.

"I am on _fire!"_

We were back in 221B. Sherlock was back on his website typing a new message for the bomber. It read:

Congratulations to Ian Monkford on his relocation to Columbia.

A few seconds after he posted it, the pink cell phone began to buzz on the desk. Sherlock snatched it off the table and quickly put it on speaker phone.

"_He says you can come and fetch me. Help. Help me, please_." The man said.

The next morning, Sherlock had dragged me out to a small café a block from the flat. While I was busy shoving pancakes in my mouth, Sherlock just say quietly across from me. He was still not eating.

The pink cell phone sat between us on the table. Sherlock was waiting anxiously for it to ring.

"Feeling better?"

"Yeah. You do realize that we've not stopped to breathe since this case started, correct?"

Sherlock just watched me as I took another swig of my tea.

"Has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope, breaking into the other flat, the dead kid's shoes… it's all meant for you." I sighed setting my mug down.

Sherlock faintly smile.

"Yes, I know."

"Is it that guy the cabbie mentioned? Is it Moriarty?"

"Perhaps."

Suddenly, the pink phone buzzed. Sherlock quickly checked it. It beeped twice and there was a new picture. It was of a smiling middle-aged woman.

"Who's that?" I asked.

"_That _could be anybody." Sherlock replied.

He sounded irritated. I smirked. I knew who it was.

"Well, it _could_ be, yeah. Lucky for you, I know exactly who that is."

"How?" Sherlock demanded.

"Mrs. Hudson watches way too much TV. And she makes me watch it with her."

I got up and quickly changed the channel on the small TV in the corner of the restaurant. It was a fashion show. It wasn't a very decent show, but it was a show nonetheless.

"See?" I smiled.

Sherlock sighed. Suddenly the phone buzzed. Sherlock quickly answered it.

"Hello?" he asked.

I quickly sat down in the chair next to him and leaned in to hear.

"_This one… is a bit defective. Sorry_."

It was an elderly woman. She talked very slowly.

"_She's blind. This is… a funny one. I'll give you… twelve hours_."

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock asked.

"_I like... to watch you... dance_."

The line went dead. I glanced back at the TV.

"Sherlock." I said as I tapped Sherlock on the shoulder.

He turned around. It was a news headline.

_"…__Continuing into the sudden death of the popular TV personality, Connie Prince. Miss Prince, famous for her make-over programs, was found dead two days ago by her brother in the house they shared in Hampstead_…" the news reporter said.

That was the woman from the TV show. She was dead! Before I knew what was happening next Sherlock pulled my plate from across the table back in front of me.

"Hurry up."

We were back in Bart's Morgue. Lestrade met us there. Connie Prince's body was laid out on a table.

"Connie Prince, fifty-four. She had one of those make-over shows on the telly. Did you see it?" Lestrade said.

"No."

Connie Prince lied about her age. I wasn't surprised.

"Very popular. She was going places." Lestrade added.

"Not any more. So, dead two days. According to one of her staff, Raoul de Santos, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden. Nasty wound. Tetanus bacteria enters the bloodstream, good night Vienna."

I shrugged. Too easy. I had seen Tetanus infections before.

"Sure. That could work."

"What? Is something wrong?" Sherlock asked.

My eyes widened.

"Well, um. I mean it c-can't be as simple as that." I stammered.

"Go on."

I sighed.

"The cut on her hand was deep. It's clean though."

"How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?" Sherlock asked us both.

"Eight, ten days." I immediately said.

"Right. So."

"The cut was made later."

"After she was dead?" Lestrade demanded.

I turned to him. He was looking at me like I had three heads.

"Of course." I said.

Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"God help me, now there's two of them." He muttered.

"Nice work Alice. Now, the only question is, how did the tetanus enter the dead woman's system?" Sherlock said.

He stared at the TV star's corpse for a few seconds before turning to me.

"Alice, you want to help, right? I need Connie Prince's background. I need family history, everything. Give me data."

I nodded, "Sure. On it."

Sherlock began to head towards the door. Lestrade and I shuffled after him.

"There's something else that we haven't thought of." Lestrade said as we walked.

"Is there?" Sherlock asked casually.

Lestrade nodded, "Yes. Why is he _doing_ this, the bomber? If this woman's death was suspicious, why point it out?"

Sherlock shrugged, "Good Samaritan."

I rolled my eyes. I hated whenever Sherlock acted like a smartass.

"Who press-gangs suicide bombers?" Lestrade added.

"_Bad_ Samaritan."

"I'm serious, Sherlock. Listen, I'm cutting you slack here; I'm trusting you but out there somewhere, some poor bastard's covered in Semtex and is just waiting for you to solve the puzzle. So just tell me, what are we dealing with?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock stared at the detective for a moment. He appeared to be thinking.

He finally said, "Something new."

We were back at the flat. We had about… four hours to go? I hadn't been keeping track of time like I should've.

The wall behind the sofa was covered in pictures and notes about the case. Lestrade stood awkwardly in the corner. I was lying on the couch watching Sherlock was pace back and forth next to me.

Sherlock was half talking to himself as he began to rant, "Connection, connection, connection. There _must_ be a connection. Carl Powers, killed twenty years ago. The bomber _knew_ him; _admitted_ that he knew him. The bomber's iPhone was in stationery from the Czech Republic. First hostage from Cornwall, the second from London, the third from Yorkshire, judging by her accent. What's he doing? Working his way round the world? Showing off?"

Suddenly, the pink phone rang from the desk. Lestrade quickly handed it to Sherlock. He answered it and put the phone on speaker.

"_You're enjoying this, aren't you? Joining the… dots_." The old woman said slowly.

She was choking back sobs.

"_Three hours. Boom… boom_."

Oh. So we had _three _hours. Just great. The line went dead.

I was at Connie Prince's house. She and her brother were roommates. We had only two hours left and I was sitting on a sofa with a hairless cat…

"We're devastated. Of _course_ we are." Connie's brother, Kenny, said.

We were in their living room. Kenny was leaning against the mantel above the fireplace. Suddenly, their butler walked in. His name was… Raoul.

"Can I get you anything, ma'am?" he asked me.

I shook my head, "No, thank you."

Kenny smiled at Raoul. The butler smiled back. It wasn't really a friendly smile. There was something going on between those two.

"Raoul is my rock. I don't think I could have managed." Kenny said when his butler had left the room.

I nodded.

"We didn't always see eye to eye, but my sister was very dear to me."

The naked cat crawled into my lap and I awkwardly patted its head.

"And to the public, Mr. Prince. Your sister was loved by all." I added.

"Oh, she was adored. I've seen her take girls who looked like the back end of Routemasters and turn them into princesses. Still, it's a relief in a way to know that she's beyond this veil of tears."

I nodded, "Absolutely."

Kenny sighed and looked down at the fireplace sadly.

"It's more common than people think. The tetanus is in the soil, people cut themselves on rose bushes, garden forks, that sort of thing. If left untreated." I tried to reassure him.

Kenny suddenly abandoned the fireplace and came and sat next to me on the couch.

"I don't know what I'm going to _do_ now. I mean, she's left me this place, which is lovely but it's not the same without her." He sighed.

He looked close to tears.

"I know sir. That's why my paper wanted to get the, um, the full story straight from the horse's mouth. You sure it's not too soon?" I said, telling him the lie Sherlock told me to say.

"No."

"Okay."

"You fire away." Kenny said giving me a weak smile.

I managed to escape for a few minutes to call Sherlock.

"_Alice_." Sherlock said when he answered.

"Hey_. _Look, get over here now. I think I'm onto something. You'll need to pick up some stuff first. You got a pen?" I asked.

"I'll remember."

About twenty minutes later, Sherlock arrived at the Prince house. Raoul let him in and I quickly beckoned him into the living room.

"Ah, Mr. Prince, isn't it?" Sherlock said walked over with an outstretched hand.

"Yes." Kenny said as he shook my flatmate's hand.

"Very good to meet you."

Sherlock gave him his best fake smile.

"Yes, thank you."

"So sorry to hear about…"

"Yes, yes, very kind." Kenny said.

I managed to pull Sherlock aside for a second.

"The cat." I said.

He nodded, understanding what I meant.

"So, shall we?" I asked.

On cue, Sherlock pulled a large camera out of his bag. Kenny awkwardly posed by the fireplace. Yes, the only way I had managed to get Sherlock in the house was by telling Kenny that the _paper _needed pictures.

"Right. We all set?" Kenny asked.

Sherlock nodded and began snapping pictures wildly at Kenny. The camera flash was blinding.

"Not too close. I'm raw from crying." Kenny warned.

Suddenly, the naked cat meowed by Sherlock's feet. Sherlock stopped and looked down.

"Oh, who's this?"

Kenny smiled, "Sekhmet. Named after the Egyptian goddess."

"How nice, was she Connie's?"

"Yes."

Kenny swooped down and picked up the cat.

"Little present from yours truly." He beamed.

Sherlock began wildly snapping more pictures. He flashed Kenny in the eyes.

"Bloody hell. What do you think you're playing at?!" Kenny exclaimed.

"Sorry."

I snatched the cat from Kenny and brought it over to Sherlock. He quickly looked over the cat and sniffed one of its paws.

"You're like Laurel and bloody Hardy, you two. What's going on?" Kenny demanded.

I smiled as I set the cat down, "Actually, I think we've _got_ what we came for. Excuse us."

"What?" Kenny asked.

I tossed camera bag at Sherlock.

"We've got deadlines." I called over my shoulder as we slammed the house's door shut.

Sherlock and I quickly walked down the sidewalk. We only had an hour and half left.

"You think it was the cat. It wasn't the cat." Sherlock said.

"What?" I asked.

"Yes, it's paws reek of disinfectant. But the tetanus wasn't administered that way. Lovely idea though."

"Sherlock, it's a new cat. What do you mean…"

He cut me off, "I thought of it the minute I saw the scratches on her arm, but it's too random and too clever for the brother."

"He murdered his sister for her money." I offered, still holding onto my idea.

"No. It was revenge. Raoul, the houseboy. Kenny Prince was the butt of his sister's jokes, week in, week out, a virtual bullying campaign. Finally he had enough, fell out with her badly. It's all on the website. She threatened to disinherit Kenny. Raoul had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle, so…" he explained.

"But the cat's paws."

"Raoul keeps a very clean house. You came through the kitchen door, saw the state of that floor, scrubbed to within an inch of its life. _You_ smell of disinfectant now. No, the cat doesn't come into it. Raoul's internet records do, though. Hope we can get a cab from here." Sherlock said.

I sighed. So close…

We practically ran down to Scotland Yard. We less than an hour to go. Sherlock threw a folder on Lestrade's desk.

"Raoul de Santos is your killer. Kenny Prince's houseboy. Second autopsy shows it wasn't tetanus that poisoned Connie Prince, it was botulinum toxin." He quickly explained.

Lestrade hesitantly picked up the folder

"We've been here before. Carl Powers? Tut-tut. Our bomber's repeated himself." Sherlock added.

"So how'd he do it?" Lestrade asked.

"Botox injection."

"Botox?" Lestrade asked uncertainly.

Sherlock smirked.

"Botox is a diluted form of botulinum. Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the Home Office gave me the complete records of Raoul's internet purchases. He's been bulk ordering Botox for months." Sherlock explained.

"He bided his time, then upped the strength to a fatal dose." I added.

Lestrade looked back and forth from Sherlock to me.

"You sure about this?" he asked.

"I'm sure." Sherlock said.

Lestrade sighed, "Alright."

I grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled his closer so only he could hear me.

"How long have you know?" I whispered.

"Well, this one was quite simple, actually, and like I said, the bomber repeated himself. _That_ was a mistake." Sherlock replied.

"Sherlock, the hostage. She's been there all this time."

He smirked at me.

"I _knew_ I could save her. I also knew that the bomber had given us _twelve_ hours. I solved the case quickly, that gave me time to get on with other things. Don't you _see_? We're one up on him!"

I rolled my eyes as he walked over to Lestrade's computer and went to his website. He typed:

Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox.

Suddenly the pink phone rang. Sherlock whipped it out and answerd,

"Hello?"

"_Help_ _me_." The old woman cried.

"Tell us where you are. Address." Sherlock said.

The woman wasn't listening to him.

"_He was so… His voice_…"

"No, no, no, no. Tell me nothing about him. _Nothing."_

_"__He sounded so… soft_."

Suddenly, there was the soft sound of a gunshot and the line went dead.

"Hello?" Sherlock asked.

Nothing.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked worriedly.

Sherlock looked up at me.

I nodded and said, "She's dead."

The next morning, we were at the flat. We had on the news. On every station there was the story about the apartment building explosion that had killed the old woman. The explosion had ended up killing twelve people.

"…_is said to have been caused by a faulty gas main. A spokesman from the utilities company_…" the news reporter said.

Sherlock sighed, "Change the station."

I shrugged and changed the channel to an episode of _Downton Abbey_. He'd never admit it, but Sherlock loved this show. He watched for a few minutes without saying a word.

"Well, obviously I lost that round, although technically I did solve the case." He finally said.

I shot him a look.

"He killed the old lady because she started to describe him. Just once, he put himself in the firing line."

"Explain." I yawned.

I was _not _a morning person.

"Well, usually, he must stay above it all. He organizes these things but no-one ever has direct contact."

I nodded.

"Lestrade called me earlier. They arrested Raoul." I added.

"Did they? Good."

We continued watching for a few more minutes. Suddenly Sherlock sighed and picked up the pink phone from the coffee table. It hadn't made a noise all night.

"Taking his time this time." Sherlock muttered.

"Anything on the Carl Powers case?" I asked.

"Nothing. All the living classmates check out spotless. No connection."

"Maybe the killer was older than Carl?" I offered.

"The thought had occurred."

"So why's he doing this, then? Why's he playing this game with you? Do you think he wants to be caught?"

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes.

"I think he wants to be distracted."

I smirked.

"I hope you'll be very happy together."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. He stared at me taken aback.

"Sorry, what?"

"Sherlock, people are dying here. Real life people. Do you care about that at all?" I asked.

"Will caring about them help save them?"

"No."

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."

I rolled my eyes.

"Heartless wretch." I muttered quietly.

Sherlock shot me a look. He had obviously heard me. I ignored him and went back to watching _Downton Abbey_. Sherlock continued to stare at me. I waited for a few minutes. He didn't stop.

"What?" I asked.

"_Don't_ make people into heroes, Alice. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them." Sherlock said.

I glared at him. Suddenly the pink phone buzzed.

"Excellent!" Sherlock exclaimed.

The pink phone beeped twice. Then a new picture was uploaded.

"View of the Thames. South Bank, somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo." Sherlock said.

He grabbed his phone and began tapping on the screen.

"You check the papers, I'll look online." He instructed.

I didn't move. He glanced up at me.

"Oh, you're angry with me, so you won't help." He said.

I shrugged.

"Not much cop, this caring lark."

I rolled my eyes and picked up the newspaper. I skimmed through the page we usually looked through for sudden death stories.

"_Archway suicide_." I read.

"Ten a penny." Sherlock snapped.

I read another headline, "_Two kids stabbed in Stoke Newington_."  
>He said nothing. I smirked.<p>

"_Man found on the train line… Andrew West_." I read,

Sherlock quickly began dialing someone on his phone. I already knew he was calling Lestrade.

Sherlock began half-shouting into the phone, "It's me. Have you found anything on the South Bank between Waterloo Bridge and Southwark Bridge?"

We were by the south band of the River Thames. This morning, the tide had decided to reveal the body of a man dressed in a suit.

"Do you reckon this is connected, then? The bomber?" Lestrade asked as we all stood around the body.

"_Must_ be. Odd, though, he hasn't been in touch." Sherlock replied.

I had seen lots of dead bodies. I was also familiar with lots of bodies washed up on the shore. This didn't have to be about the case at all. The guy either took the swan dive or he owed someone money and they decided to take him out.

"But we must assume that some poor bugger's primed to explode, yeah?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes." Sherlock said.

We continued to stare at the body.

"Any ideas?" Lestrade asked.

"Seven… so far."

"Seven?!" Lestrade and I demanded.

Sherlock leaned down over the body and began to examine it.

"He's dead about twenty-four hours, maybe a bit longer." I said after a few minutes.

Sherlock continued to examine the body.

I turned to Lestrade, "What was the report? Did he drown?"

"Apparently not. Not enough of the Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated." Lestrade replied.

"Cool. So it's not a suicide. Check _that _off your list, Sherlock."

Sherlock remained quiet.

"There's quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth. More bruises here and here." I offered.

"Fingertips." Sherlock muttered as he got to his feet.

He tapped furiously on his phone for a few minutes.

"In his late thirties, I'd say. Not in the best condition. He's been in the river a long while. The water's destroyed most of the data. But I'll tell you one thing, that lost Vermeer painting's a fake." Sherlock began.

A painting? What was he getting at?

"What?" Lestrade asked.

"We need to identify the corpse. Find out about his friends and associates." Sherlock added.

Lestrade held up a hand, "Wait-wait-wait-wait-wait. What painting? What are you on about?"

"It's all over the place. Haven't you seen the posters? Dutch Old Master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago, now it's turned up. Worth thirty million pounds." Sherlock explained calmly.

"Okay. So what has _that_ got to do with the stiff?"

"_Everything_. Have you ever heard of the Golem?" Sherlock asked.

Golem? What was this, Lord of the Rings?

Lestrade scoffed, "Golem?"

"It's a horror story. Jewish folk story. A gigantic man made of clay. It's also the name of an assassin, real name Oskar Dzundza, one of the deadliest assassins in the world. _That_ is his trademark style." Sherlock said quickly.

Lestrade nodded, "So this is a hit?"

"Definitely. The Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands."

"But what has this gotta do with that painting? I don't see." Lestrade said.

"You do _see_, you just don't _observe_." Sherlock said.

"All right, all right, girls, calm down. Sherlock? Do you wanna take us through it?" I asked.

"What do we know about this corpse? The killer's not left us with much – just the shirt and the trousers. They're pretty formal, maybe he was going out for the night, but the trousers are heavy-duty, polyester, nasty, same as the shirt, cheap. They're both too big for him, so some kind of standard-issue uniform. Dressed for work, then. What _kind_ of work? There's a hook on his belt for a walkie-talkie." Sherlock deduced.

"Tube driver?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Security guard?" I offered.

Sherlock nodded, "More likely. That'll be borne out by his backside."

"Backside?!" Lestrade scoffed.

"Flabby. You'd think that he'd led a sedentary life, yet the soles of his feet and the nascent varicose veins in his legs show otherwise. So, a lot of walking _and_ a lot of sitting around. Security guard's looking good. And the watch helps, too. The alarm shows he did regular night shifts." Sherlock explained.

"Why regular? Maybe he just set his alarm like that the night before he died." Lestrade protested.

"No-no-no, the buttons are stiff, hardly touched. He set his alarm like that a long time ago. His routine never varied. But there's something else. The killer must have been interrupted, otherwise he would have stripped the corpse completely. There was some kind of badge or insignia on the shirt front that he tore off, suggesting the dead man worked somewhere recognizable, some kind of institution," Sherlock held up a wad of paper, "Found this inside his trouser pockets. Sodden by the river but still recognizable. Ticket _stubs_. He worked in a museum or gallery. Did a quick check, the Hickman Gallery has reported one of its attendants as missing. Alex Woodbridge. Tonight they unveil the re-discovered masterpiece. Now why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant? Inference: the dead man knew something about it – something that would stop the owner getting paid thirty million pounds. The picture's a fake."

I looked back down at the body.

"I'll buy that." I shrugged.

"I'd better get my feelers out for this Golem character." Lestrade said.

Sherlock shook his head, "Pointless. You'll never find him. But I know a man who can."

"Who?"

Sherlock gave Lestrade a cheeky grin.

"Me."

Sherlock and I were in a cab. My flatmate was staring at the pink phone.

"Why hasn't he phoned? He's broken his pattern. Why?" Sherlock asked.

I shrugged. I honestly didn't have an answer.

"Where now? The Gallery?" I asked.

"In a bit."

"The Hickman's contemporary art, right? Why have they got hold of an Old Master?" I said.

"Dunno. Dangerous to jump to conclusions. Need data."

We sat in silence for a few minutes as the taxi continued to move forward.

"Stop!" Sherlock blurted.

The cab driver jumped and slowly pulled over the side of the road.

"You wait here. I won't be a moment." Sherlock said, getting out.

I leaned forward towards the cab driver.

"Just a minute." I said.

I hopped out and followed Sherlock. Sherlock was walking over to a homeless girl on the side of the road.

"Change? Any change?" she asked.

"What for?" Sherlock asked.

"Cup of tea, of course."

Sherlock reached into his pocket and handed the homeless girl a bank note.

"Here you go, fifty."

She smiled, "Thanks."

Sherlock turned back towards the cab.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Investing."

I glanced back. The homeless girl was reading a note.

"Now we go to the Gallery." Sherlock said.

I turned back around to him. He paused outside of the cab.

"Have you got any cash?"


	14. The Great Game: Part 4

The taxi pulled up and Sherlock jumped out. I was about to step out, but Sherlock stopped me.

"No. I need you to find out all you can about the gallery attendant. Lestrade will give you the address." He said.

I rolled my eyes.

"K!" I shouted as he walked off.

Gosh, why did I put up with that man?

I was at Alex Woodbridge's house. His flatmate had been so kind and was showing me upstairs. Her name was Julie.

"We'd been sharing about a year. Just sharing." She said,

I nodded. I gestured towards an object covered in a sheet.

"May I?" I asked.

"Be my guest."

I pulled off the sheet revealing a telescope

"So, he was a stargazer?" I asked.

Julie smiled.

"Gosh, yeah. Mad about it. It's all he ever did in his spare time. He was a nice guy, Alex. I liked him," she looked around the messy room, "He was never much of a one for hoovering."

Hoovering meant vacuuming.

"What about art? Did he know anything about that?" I asked.

"It was just a job, you know?"

"Has anyone else been round asking about Alex?" I asked.

"No. We had a break in, though." She replied.

What?

"When?"

"Last night. There was nothing taken. Oh, there _was_ a message left for Alex on the landline."

"Who was it from?"

"Well, I can play it for you if you like. I'll get the phone." Julie offered.

"Please." I said.

She walked out of the room for a few seconds and returned with the phone. She played the message.

"_Oh, should I speak now? Alex? Love, it's Professor Cairns. Listen, you were right. You were bloody right! Give us a call when_…" a woman said.

The message ended.

"Professor Cairns?" I asked.

"No idea, sorry."

"Can I try calling back?" I asked.

Julie shrugged, "Well, no good. I mean, I've had other calls since, sympathy ones, you know."

I nodded. Suddenly my phone buzzed. I pulled it out. It was a text. It read:

RE: BRUCE-PARTINGTON PLANS  
>Have you spoken to West's fiancée yet?<br>-Mycroft Holmes

I cringed as I put my phone away. I really did not like this job.

I was at Andrew West's flat. I was sitting on the sofa next to his fiancée. Her name was Lucy. She was very nice. We each had a mug of tea in our hands.

"He wouldn't. He just wouldn't." she was muttering.

"Well, stranger things have happened." I shrugged.

"Westie wasn't a traitor. It's a horrible thing to say!" Lucy cried.

I flinched. I hated Mycroft for making me do this.

"I'm sorry, but you must understand that's…"

"That's what they think, isn't it, his bosses?" Lucy asked.

"He was a young man, about to get married. He had debts…" I offered,

Lucy scoffed, "_Everyone's_ got debts, and Westie wouldn't wanna clear them by selling out his country."

I sighed.

"Can you tell me exactly what happened that night?"

"We were having a night in, just watching a DVD. He normally falls asleep, you know, but he sat through this one. He was quiet. Out of the blue, he said he just had to go and see someone." Lucy explained.

"And you've no idea who?" I asked.

Lucy shook her head and wiped her eyes with a tissue.

A little while later, she was showing me out of her flat. There was a man walking with his bicycle up the street. He waved at Lucy. She waved back.

"Oh, hi, Luce. You okay, love?" he asked.

"Yeah!" she called.

"Who's this?" he asked.

I waved.

"Alice Scotts. Hi." I said.

Lucy smiled, "This is my brother, Joe," she turned back to her brother, "Alice is trying to find out what happened to Westie, Joe."

Joe nodded, "You with the police?"

"Yeah!" I called back.

"Well, tell 'em to get off their arses, will you? It's bloody ridiculous." Joe said.

"I'll do my best." I said.

Joe nodded and continued walking up the road. I turned back to Lucy.

"Thank you so much for your help. And I'm very, very sorry for your loss." I said.

Lucy nodded.

"He didn't steal those things, Miss Scotts. I knew Westie. He was a good man. He was _my_ good man." She said.

With that, she closed the door, leaving me outside, alone.

I was walking back from the Tube station to the flat. There was a homeless girl off the side.

"Spare change? Any spare change?" she asked.

I tossed a one pound coin into her cup.

"Thank you, Miss."

I continued walking back towards the flat. Sherlock hurried out as I approached.

"Alex Woodbridge didn't know anything special about art." I said.

"And?"

"And?" I repeated.

"Is that it? No habits, hobbies, personality?"

I shrugged.

"No, give us a chance! He was an amateur astronomer."

Sherlock nodded.

"Hold that cab." He said.

I nodded and turned around.

"Hey, can you wait here?" I asked the driver.

He nodded. I walked back over towards Sherlock. He was in front of the homeless girl.

"Spare change, sir?" she asked.

"Don't mind if I do." Sherlock replied.

The girl handed him a piece of paper. I knitted my eyebrows together. What was he up to?

He glanced down at the piece of paper and smiled. Then he walked back over to the cab.

"Fortunately, I _haven't_ been idle." Sherlock told me.

He opened the cab door for me.

"Come on."

We hopped out of the cab and were walking along the sidewalk. It was getting late. The sun had already set.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Sherlock asked, buttoning up his trench coat.

I looked up at the stars.

"I thought you didn't care about things like that." I said.

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it."

"Listen, Alex Woodbridge had a message on the answering machine at his flat from a Professor Cairns." I said.

"This way." Sherlock said.

I looked around at the buildings.

"Nice part of town… Any time you wanna explain." I said, making the sure first part was sarcastic.

"Homeless network, really is indispensable. My eyes and ears all over the city."

"Clever. Yeah, there was a similar thing back in New York." I said.

He glanced over at me.

"I like Homeless Networks. You scratch their backs and…" I began to tease.

Sherlock interrupted me, "Yes, then I disinfect myself."

Sherlock smirked down at me. He produced a flashlight from his coat and handed it to me. I turned it on.

That's when I realized where we were. There were homeless people strewn everywhere. They were all camping out here for the night. Sherlock turned a corner and we froze. In the distance was the shadow a man. The shadow was on the ground. Slowly, he stood up. He had a lanky figure and a bald head. He was unbelievably tall.

"What's he doing sleeping around here?" I whispered.

"Well, he has a very distinctive look. He has to hide somewhere where tongues won't wag, much." Sherlock replied.

The shadow began running. Sherlock and I chased after it. We ran through the twists and turns of the tunnels containing more and more homeless people. When we finally reached an opening, we didn't find the man the shadow belonged to. Instead we found a car, speeding away from us.

"No, no, no, _no_! It'll take us _weeks_ to find him again." Sherlock shouted, punching the air in frustration.  
>Suddenly a thought occurred to me.<p>

"Oh shit." I muttered.

"What?"

"I told you, someone left Alex Woodbridge a message. There can't be _that_ many Professor Cairns in the book."

Sherlock's eyes widen. He nodded before running off.

"Come on."

We ran into the planetarium. Professor Cairns was already behind attacked. The Golem had one hand clamped over her mouth and another at her throat. In the background was a presentation about planets, loudly playing.

"…_composed mainly of hydrogen. Their light takes so long to reach us_…" the narrator said.

Sherlock and I raced towards the Golem.

"_Golem!"_ Sherlock screamed.

Golem looked up at us. In one swift motion, he snapped Professor Cairn's neck and dropped her to the floor. He then ducked out of sight.

"…_many are actually long-dead, exploded into supernovas_." The narrator continued.

"Alice."

"I can't see him. I'll go round. I'll go!" I called.

I ran around the theatre, searching.

"Who are you working for this time, Dzundza?" I heard Sherlock say.

Sherlock stopped talking. It was silent. Something was wrong. I raced back to the stage where Sherlock had been. He wasn't alone now. The Golem had one hand clamped over Sherlock's mouth and he was suffocating my flatmate.

"Golem! Let him go, or I _will_ kill you." I screamed, raising the pistol.

It was Sherlock's, but I had managed to pick-pocket him before we came in. I slowly walked onto the stage. Wow, Golem was tall. He was at least seven feet tall.

Golem growled as he slowly walked towards me, swinging Sherlock around wildly in his grip. Suddenly, he kicked at me. I pulled the trigger. It didn't work. As soon as I had pulled it, Golem's foot came in contact with the gun, sending the bullet away and into the seats of the theatre.

Golem threw Sherlock aside and tackled me. He had both of his hands on my neck. I couldn't breathe. Suddenly, Golem was shoved off of me by Sherlock. I got to my feet as quickly as I could, gasping for breath.

Sherlock punched Golem in the chest. Golem looked down at Sherlock for a few seconds before swinging his arm and crashing it down on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock crumbled to the ground.

I hurried backwards to get a running start. Then I ran and jumped on Golem's back. He howled in frustration as I wrapped my arms around his neck. He began spinning in circles, trying to throw me off. I didn't let go though. I wouldn't let go.

Sherlock was back on his feet. He had retrieved the pistol and had it aimed at Golem. He wouldn't shoot though.

"What are you waiting for? Shoot!" I shouted.

Sherlock didn't respond.

Suddenly, Golem grabbed a hold of my wrist. I clawed at his back trying to keep hold. Golem yanked me around so that I was facing him. He grunted as he tossed me aside, off the stage.

I landed with a heavy _thud_. I groaned from the floor. There was a gun shot. The sound of running. Another shot. A door opening and closing. A third shot. Nothing. I heard Sherlock groan in frustration and slam a hand down on the stage.

Next thing I knew, Sherlock was next to me, pulling me to my feet.

"Are you alright?" he asked, holding my face between his hands.

"I'm fine."

"Do you have a concussion? Come on, look me in the eye."

"Sherlock, I'm fine."

I pushed him away.

"I'm fine."

Sherlock nodded.

"_…__long dead, exploded into supernovas_." The narrator said.

I sighed. That thing was really getting on my nerves.

We were back at the art gallery. Sherlock was standing in front of the Vermeer painting, staring at the canvas.

"It's a fake. It _has_ to be." He said.

"That painting has been subjected to every test known to science." Ms. Wencelas scoffed.

"It's a very _good_ fake, then."

I smirked. You tell her Sherlock!

"You _know_ about this, don't you? This is _you_, isn't it?" Sherlock finally said.

Miss Wencelas rolled her eyes.

"Inspector, my time is being wasted. Would you mind showing yourself and your friends out?"

Suddenly the pink phone buzzed from inside Sherlock's coat. He snatched it out and answered.

"The painting is a fake." He immediately said.

No response.

"It's a fake. That's why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed!" Sherlock said louder.

Still nothing.

"Oh, come on. Proving it's just the detail. The painting is a fake. I've solved it. I've figured it out. It's a fake! That's the answer. That's why they were killed."

Silence.

"Okay, I'll prove it. Give me time. Will you give me time?"

"_Ten_…" the person replied.

It was a little boy. I gasped in horror,

"It's a kid. Oh, God, it's a _kid_!" Lestrade said.

"_Nine_…" the boy said.

Sherlock nodded, "It's a countdown. He's giving me time."

Sherlock stared back at the painting.

"The painting is a fake, but how can I prove it? How? _How?"_

_"__Eight_…"

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes." I said.

Sherlock turned around. He hated me for calling him that.

"You have seven seconds. You solve that thing right now." I growled.

Sherlock turned to Ms. Wencelas.

"This kid will die. _Tell_ me why the painting is a fake. _Tell me!" _he shouted.

Ms. Wenceslas said nothing. She honestly didn't know.

"_Seven_…"

"No, shut up. Don't say anything. It only works if I figure it out." Sherlock said.

He looked back at the painting.

"Must be possible. Must be staring me in the face."

"_Six_…"

"Woodbridge knew, but _how_?" Sherlock muttered.

"_Five_…"

Lestrade leaned over to me.

"It's speeding up!" he said urgently.

"Oh!" Sherlock suddenly said.

Did he figure it out?

"_Four_…"

"In the planetarium! You heard it too. Oh, that is brilliant! That is gorgeous!"

"_Three_..."

"This is beautiful. I love this!" Sherlock said.

He began to text furiously on his phone.

"_Two_…"

"Sherlock!" I screamed.

"The Van Buren Supernova!" Sherlock yelled into the pink phone.

There was a pause.

"_Please. Is somebody there? Somebody help me_!" the little boy said.

"There you go. Go find out where he is and pick him up." Sherlock said handing Lestrade the phone.  
>I walked over to Sherlock and stared at the painting. Ms. Wencelas walked over and stood beside me.<p>

"The Van Buren Supernova, so-called. Exploding star, only appeared in the sky in 1858. So how could it have been painted in the 1640's?" Sherlock explained.

I smirked. Okay, that was pretty clever. Suddenly my phone buzzed. It was a text. It read.

My patience is wearing thin.  
>-Mycroft Holmes<p>

"Sherlock." I said

He was already heading towards the exit.

_~~~_

I was at the rail yard with the security guard who had found Andrew West's body.

"So this is where West was found?" I asked.

The guard nodded, "Yes."

It was quiet for a minute.

"You gonna be long?" he asked.

I shrugged, "Possibly."

"You with the police, then?"

"Sure."

"I hate 'em."

"Who, the police?"

"No. Jumpers." He said.

I nodded. Right.

He continued, "People who chuck themselves in front of trains. Selfish bastards."

"Well, that's _one_ way of looking at it." I muttered.

"I mean it. It's all right for them. It's over in a split second, strawberry jam all over the lines. What about the drivers, hmm? They've gotta live with it, haven't they?"

I nodded, "Yeah, speaking of strawberry jam, there's no blood on the line. Has it been cleaned off?"

"No, there wasn't that much."

"You said his head was smashed in."

"Well, it was, but there wasn't much blood." He explained.

I nodded. That was weird.

"Well, I'll leave you to it then. Just give us a shout when you're off." The guard said.

"You got it!" I called as he wandered off.

How did Andrew West end up out here?

"Points." A voice behind me said.

I jumped and turned around. It was Sherlock.

"Hi." I said.

"Knew you'd get there eventually. West wasn't killed here, that's why there was so little blood." He continued.

"Have you been following me?"

"Of course. You don't think I'd give up on a case like this just to spite my brother, do you? Come on. Got a bit of burglary to do."

He began to walk away from the tracks. I sighed and hurried after him.

We were walking down a sidewalk near a cluster of apartment buildings.

"The missile defence plans haven't left the country, otherwise Mycroft's people would have heard about it. Despite what people think, we do still have a Secret Service." Sherlock said.

"Yeah, I know. I've met them."

"Which means whoever stole the memory stick can't sell it or doesn't know what to do with it. My money's on the latter. We're here."

"Where?" I asked, looking around.

Sherlock turned and began walking up the driveway to one of the flats. I slowly followed after him. He jiggled the door handle to one of the apartments.

"Sherlock! What if there's someone in?" I whispered.

"There isn't."

With that, he quickly picked the lock and walked inside.  
>"Where are we?" I asked, closing the door behind us.<p>

We walked through the small entryway and back to the living room.

"Oh, sorry, didn't I say? Joe Harrison's flat."

Sherlock sounded casual, like we were taking a stroll through the park.

"Joe?" I asked.

"Brother of West's fiancée. _He_ stole the memory stick and killed his prospective brother-in-law."

Sherlock pulled out his mini-magnifying glass and began examining the apartment,

"And why'd he do it?" I asked.

"Let's ask him."

Suddenly, I heard a door slam shut. I put out my hand towards Sherlock. My flatmate sighed as he plopped his pistol in my open hand. I smiled in thanks and then slowly walked back towards the door.

There was a man, leaning his bicycle against a wall. It was Joe. When he saw me, he jumped and grabbed an umbrella from the opposite wall. Did he mean to fend me off with _that_?

"Don't." I warned.

He slowly walked towards me. I lifted the gun and leveled it at his height.

"_Don't."_ I said again.

Joe stared at the gun for a few seconds. Finally he sighed and dropped the umbrella. I nodded for him to walk into the living room.

When he entered the room, Sherlock pointed to the sofa. Joe nodded and slowly took a seat. He was a timid thing for just killing someone. He wouldn't stop shaking.

I handed the pistol back to Sherlock. It was silent for a few minutes as Sherlock and I stared at Joe.

"It wasn't meant to! Gosh, what's Lucy gonna say?" Joe blurted.

"Why did you kill him?" I asked.

"It was an accident."

Sherlock snorted.

"I _swear_ it was." Joe said desperately.

"But stealing the plans for the missile defense program wasn't an accident, was it?" Sherlock asked.

Joe sighed before explaining, "I started dealing drugs. I mean, the bike thing's a great cover, right? I dunno how it started, I just got out of my depth. I owed people thousands, _serious_ people. Then at Westie's engagement do, he starts talking about his job. I mean, usually he's so careful, but that night after a few pints he really opened up. He told me about these missile plans, beyond top secret. He showed me the memory stick, he waved it in front of me. You hear about these things getting lost, ending up on rubbish tips and what-not. And there it was, and I thought, well, I thought it could be worth a fortune. It was pretty easy to get the thing off him, he was so plastered. Next time I saw him, I could tell by the look on his face that he knew."  
>Joe looked up at me. He looked close to tears.<p>

"What happened?" I asked.

Joe ran a hand through his messy hair.

"I _was_ gonna call an ambulance, but it was too late. I just didn't have a clue what to do, so I dragged him in 'ere, and I just sat in the dark, thinking." Joe sighed.

"When a neat little idea popped into your head." Sherlock chimed in.

Joe looked down at his feet in shame.

"Carrying Andrew West way away from here. His body would have gone on for ages if the train hadn't met a stretch of track that curved."

"And points?" I asked.

"Exactly."

I turned back to Joe.

"Do you still have it, then? The memory stick?"

Joe nodded, "Yes."

"Fetch it for me, if you wouldn't mind." Sherlock instructed.

Joe slowly rose to his feet and walked to a different room.

"Distraction over, the game continues." Sherlock whispered to me.

"Well, maybe _that's_ over, too. We've heard nothing from the bomber." I offered.

Sherlock looked over at me.

"Five pips, remember, Alice? It's a countdown. We've only had four."


	15. The Great Game: Part 5

We were back at the flat. It was late which meant that nothing good was on. And of course Sherlock decided to watch it.

"No, no, _no_! Of _course_ he's not the boy's father! Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!" he hollered at the TV.

I glanced over at him from my armchair.

"Knew it was dangerous." I muttered.

"What?"

"Getting you into crap telly." I smiled.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Not a patch on Connie Prince."

"Have you given Mycroft the memory stick yet?" I asked.

"Yep. He was over the moon. Threatened me with a knighthood… again."

We watched for a few more minutes.

"You know, I'm still waiting." I said.

"For what?"

I smirked, "For you to admit that a little knowledge of the solar system and you'd have cleared up the fake painting a lot quicker."

"Didn't do _you_ any good, did it?"

"No, but I'm not the world's only consulting detective."

Sherlock smirked.

"True."  
>I checked the time. I was late.<p>

"Oh, I have to run. It's movie night at Pete's. There's some pasta still in the fridge. I'll be back late." I said, pulling on my coat.

"Okay."

"Oh and we need milk." I sighed.

"I'll get some." Sherlock said.

I stared at him in disbelief.

"Seriously?

"Yes."

"I'm out of Freddo's too." I said slowly.

He looked over at me.

"Okay, I'll get some."

I winked.

"See yah later!"

With that I walked out of the flat. I made my way down the sidewalk and on my way to the Tube.

"Alice Scotts?"

I turned around.

"Yeah?"

Suddenly, someone grabbed me from behind and clamped a napkin over my mouth. I shrieked and tried to fight my way out of the person's grip. All of a sudden, I felt tired. Chloroform. I made one last attempt of struggling, then everything went black…

I was blindfolded and handcuffed. A man was in front of me strapping something to my chest. It was metal box of some sort.

"Now, sweetheart, I need you to listen." He said.

The old woman was right. He did have a soft voice. He also sounded familiar.

"There are snipers hidden everywhere. You're going to repeat everything I say. If even one syllable is off, I'm going to shoot you and your friend. I don't want that to happen though. I like you." He said.

He suddenly began attaching an earpiece to my ear.

"Do you understand?"

Gosh, he was so Irish.

"Yes."

I was silent for a few minutes as he continued strapping things to me.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked.

He chuckled.

"I'm dreadfully bored, darling. Besides, you of all people should understand why I do the things I do."

"You know?" I demanded.

I was trying to sound calm, but it wasn't working.

"Like I said, I'm dreadfully bored. And you, Alice, are never bored. I can see why too. After what you did to your precious _family_. I'd want you dead too. You did the right thing, running away." He said.

He suddenly undid my handcuffs and started putting a large coat on me.

"Whatever you do, don't tell him. I'll do anything, just don't tell him." I begged.

The bomber chuckled again.

"Of course not. It's our little secret."

I heard the door to the swimming pool open. I was behind a corner. A puffy jacket was wrapped over the bombs strapped to my chest.

"Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. Oh, that's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance, all to distract me from _this."_

It was Sherlock.

"_Come out, sweetheart. It's showtime." _The bomber instructed.

I slowly walked out of my corner and into the open.

_"__Evening._"

"Evening." I repeated.

Sherlock stared at me in confusion.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" I continued to repeat.

"Alice. What the hell?"

"Bet you never saw _this_ coming."

I did as I was told and slowly opened my puffy coat, revealing the bombs.

"What would you like me to make her say next?"

Sherlock said nothing.

"Gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer." I repeated.

"Stop it." Sherlock demanded.

"Nice touch, this. The pool where little Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop Alice Scotts too. Stop her heart." I narrated.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked.

My earpiece went dead. I was silent. Suddenly, the bomber spoke out loud.

"I gave you my number. I thought you might call."

I slowly looked back in the direction Sherlock was looking. My eyes widened. The bomber was Jim. It was the IT guy Molly had been dating.

"Is that British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?" Jim asked.

Sherlock produced a pistol from his trousers and pointed it at Jim. I don't think Sherlock even remembered him.

"Both."

"Jim Moriarty. Hi!"

I wanted to scream. So this was the infamous Moriarty.

"Jim? Jim from the hospital? Oh. Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that _was_ rather the point."

Suddenly a red dot appeared on my chest. It was from on of the snipers. Sherlock glanced at me. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was scared.

"Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty. I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see like you!" Jim said.

"'Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister?'" Sherlock quoted. We had heard it earlier on TV.

Sherlock continued, "_'_ Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?'"

Jim shrugged, "Just so."

"Consulting criminal. Brilliant." Sherlock said.

"Isn't it? No one ever gets to me and no one ever will."

"_I_ did." Sherlock said.

"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way."

"Thank you."

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

Sherlock smirked.

"Yes you did."

"Yeah, okay, I did. But the flirting's over, Sherlock… Daddy's had enough now!"

He slowly walked closer and closer to us.

Jim began speaking again, "I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off."

He smiled.

"Although I have _loved_ this little game of ours. Playing Jim from I.T. gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?" he asked.

"People have died." Sherlock said.

Jim's voice got deeper as he screamed.

"That's what people _DO!"_

Sherlock nodded.

_"_I _will_ stop you." Sherlock said.

"No you won't."

Sherlock suddenly turned to me.

"You all right?" he asked.

I glanced back at Jim, terrified to do anything.

"You can talk, Alice in Wonderland. Go ahead." He said.

I slowly looked back and Sherlock and briefly nodded. Sherlock looked back and Jim and held out something. It was Mycroft's memory stick.

"Take it."

"Huh? Oh! That!"

He walked passed me and accepted the stick from Sherlock.

"The missile plans!"

He kissed the memory stick.

"Boring!" he said in a sing-songy voice.

He chuckled.

"I could have got them anywhere."

He casually tossed the memory stick into the pool.

I don't know what came over me, but next time I knew I had pulled Jim back and grabbed him from behind.

"Sherlock, run!" I shouted.

Jim laughed in delight.

"_Good_! _Very_ good."

Sherlock didn't move a muscle. What was he waiting for?

"If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up." I growled to the bomber.

"Isn't she a keeper? I can see why you like having her around. But then people do get so sentimental about their pets. They're so touchingly loyal. But, _oops!_" Jim said,  
>Suddenly a red dot appeared in the middle of Sherlock's forehead.<p>

"Gotcha!" Jim chuckled.

I sighed and slowly released Moriarty. He turned around and gently patted my head.

"Such a good girl."

I wanted to cry. Why did this have to happen to us?

Jim turned back to Sherlock, "Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock, to _you_?"

"Oh, let me guess, I get killed."

Sherlock sounded bored.

"Kill you? N-no, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway some day. I don't wanna rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No-no-no-no-no. If you don't stop prying, I'll _burn_ you. I'll burn the _heart_ out of you."

Jim smiled sweetly.  
>"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one." Sherlock said, glancing over at me.<p>

I rolled my eyes. He decided to do this now?

"But we both know that's not _quite_ true."

Jim glanced back at me.

"Well, I'd better be off."

He began making his way towards the exit.

"Well, so nice to have had a proper chat."

Sherlock still had the pistol raised to Moriarty's level.

"What if I was to shoot you now, right now?" Sherlock asked.

"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face. 'Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock. Really I would. And just a teensy bit disappointed. And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes." Jim said.

"Catch you later." Sherlock said slowly.

"No you won't!" Jim called over his shoulder as he exited the pool.

After a few seconds, Sherlock ran over to me. He dropped the pistol as he pulled off my heavy coat and began to start removing the bombs from my chest.

"What happened? Are you alright?" he asked.  
>I was breathing heavily. I hadn't even realized that I had been holding my breath during most of the conversation.<p>

"Yeah, I'm fine." I said.

Sherlock was furiously ripping at the duct tape that held the bombs in place.

"Sherlock." I said.

He finally yanked off the mess of bombs and slid them across the room. I sighed with relief and quickly laid down on the floor. I ripped out the earpiece and threw it into the pool. Sherlock picked up the pistol and began to pace back and forth.

"Are _you_ okay?" I asked.

"Me? Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine. Fine." Sherlock said.

He sounded scatterbrained.

"That, _thing_ that you… that you did. That thing," he cleared his throat, "you offered to do. That was, um… good."

He sat down next to me on the floor. I laughed lightly.

"I'm glad no one saw that."

"What?"

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk even more." I smiled.

Sherlock shrugged.

"People do little else."

He grinned at me. Suddenly a red dot appeared over his chest.

"Oh." I said quietly.

Suddenly the door burst open and Jim walked back in.

"Sorry, you two! I'm soooooo changeable!" he laughed.

My flatmate stood up. There were three red dots on Sherlock and two on me now.

"It is a weakness with me but, to be fair to myself, it is my _only_ weakness." Jim continued.

Sherlock looked down at me.

"You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I _would_ try to convince you but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!" Jim giggled.

"Probably my answer has crossed yours." Sherlock said.

Sherlock raised the pistol and aimed it at Jim. The consulting criminal smiled confidently. Suddenly, Sherlock lowered the pistol and pointed it at the bomb jacket several yards away.

I glanced up at Sherlock. Was he really going to do this? He and Jim were staring at each other. Jim tilted his head almost daring Sherlock to do something. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he places finger on the trigger, and then…


	16. A Scandal in Belgravia: Part 1

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he placed his finger on the trigger, and then music started playing. It was the Bee Gee's song _Stayin' Alive_. Sherlock glanced down at me in confusion. Jim rolled his eyes.

"Do you mind if I get that?" he asked.

"No, no, please. You've got the rest of your life." Sherlock replied.

Jim nodded and took out his phone from his jacket. He answered it.

"Hello? … Yes, of _course_ it is. What do you want?"

He mouthed '_sorry_' to Sherlock. Suddenly, his face was filled with fury.

"SAY THAT AGAIN!" he screamed into the phone.

I frowned.

"Say that again, and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you and I will ssssskin you."

He paused.

"Wait."

He held his phone against his shoulder and looked up at us.

"Sorry. Wrong day to die."

"Oh. Did you get a better offer?" Sherlock asked.

Jim looked down at his phone.

"You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock." He said.

With that he began walking towards the exit again.

He continued talking into the phone, "So if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don't, I'll make you into shoes."

Then he was gone. Sherlock looked down at me and I sighed in relief. The red do0ts were gone.

"What happened there?" I asked.

Sherlock shrugged, "Someone changed his mind. The question is, who?"

If had been one week since the case. I was sitting in my armchair in the living room, my laptop on my lap. Sherlock sat at his desk with a mug of coffee. He casually flipped through the newspaper.

"What are you typing?" he asked.

"Blog." I replied, not even looking up.

"About?"

"Us."

Sherlock smirked.

"You mean me."

I looked up at him. He shrugged.

"Well, you're typing a lot."

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. Sherlock rose to his feet.

"Right then. So, what have we got?"

And that was the beginning of the many strange _cases_.

A middle-aged man sat in a chair in front of our armchairs. This was how we usually talked to clients.

"My wife seems to be spending a very long time at the office." He said.

Sherlock sighed, "Boring."

A woman was now in the chair.

"I think my husband might be having an affair." She said.

Sherlock nodded, "Yes."

A man holding a urn now sat in the chair.

"She's not my real aunt. She's been replaced, I _know_ she has. I _know_ human ash." He insisted.

Sherlock pointed towards the door, "Leave."

A business man sat in the chair. Two of his associates stood on either side of him.

"We are prepared to offer any sum of money you care to mention for the recovery of these files."

Sherlock wandered off into another room.

"Boring."

A geeky young man around my age sat in the chair.

"We have this website. It explains the true meaning of comic books, 'cause people miss a lot of the themes." He began to explain.

Sherlock sighed and began to wander off.

The young man continued, "But then all the comic books started coming true."

Sherlock stopped and came back.

"Oh. Interesting."

Later that same day, I was sitting in my armchair typing on my blog again. Sherlock leaned over my shoulder.

"'_Geek Interpreter_.' What's that?" he asked, reading the title.

"It's the case's title." I said.

Sherlock scoffed, "What does it need a title for?"

He then walked away. I sighed and closed my laptop.

We were at Bart's Morgue. Sherlock was examining a woman's corpse. Lestrade stood off to the side.

"Do people actually read your blog?" Sherlock asked.

"Where do you think our clients come from?" I asked.

"I have a website."

"In which you enumerate two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash. Nobody's reading your website."

Sherlock glared at me and pouted.

"So, got anything besides dyed blonde hair and no obvious cause of death except for these dots… whatever they are."

The woman's body was covered in ran patches of tiny red dots.

I was typing my blog again. Sherlock walked behind me, eating a piece of toast.

"Oh, for God's sakes!" he shouted.

"What?" I asked.

"'The Speckled Blonde'?!" he demanded, reading the title.

I sighed and slammed my laptops lid closed.

Two little girls were sitting together in the chairs. Sherlock paced back and forth in front of the fireplace.

"They wouldn't let us see Granddad when he was dead. Is that 'cause he'd gone to heaven?" one of the girls' asked.

Sherlock sighed, "People don't really go to heaven when they die. They're taken to a special room and burned."

The two girls looked at each other worriedly. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Oh, Sherlock.

Lestrade led Sherlock and I towards the abandoned car.

"There was a plane crash in Dusseldorf yesterday. Everyone dead." He began.

Sherlock sighed, "Suspected terrorist bomb. We do watch the news."  
>I scoffed, "You said, 'boring', and changed the channel."<p>

Sherlock shot me a glare. Lestrade handed me an evidence bag.

"Well, according to the flight details, this man was checked in on board. Inside his coat he's got a stub from his boarding pass, napkins from the flight, even one of those special biscuits. Here's his passport stamped in Berlin Airport. So this man should have died in a plane crash in Germany yesterday but instead he's in a car boot in Southwark."

"Lucky escape." I muttered.

He opened the trunk of the car revealing the body of a man, dressed in a suit.

Lestrade turned to Sherlock, "Any ideas?"

"Eight, so far." He sighed.

He leaned over and looked over the body.

"Okay, four ideas." Sherlock said.

A few more minutes passed.

Sherlock sighed, "Maybe _two_ ideas."

Sherlock had been in the kitchen all afternoon working on experiments. He was wearing heavy protective gloves and safety goggles. He wandered out into the living room and made his way over to the desk where I was sitting, working on the blog.

"No, no, no, don't mention the _unsolved_ ones." He said, reading over my shoulder.

"Why not? People want to know you're human."

"Why?"

"Because they're interested."

"No they're not. _Why_ are they?" he asked.

"Look."

I showed him the number of views on my page.

"One thousand, eight hundred and ninety-five."

"Sorry, what?"

"I reset that counter last night. This blog has had nearly two thousand hits in the last eight hours. This is your living, Sherlock, not two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash." I said.

"Two hundred and forty-three." He mumbled.

He grabbed the blowtorch from beside me on the desk and walked back into the kitchen.

We were backstage at a theatre. Sherlock had just solved another case.

"So, what's this one? '_Belly Button Murders'_?" Sherlock teased as we maneuvered around several police officers.

"' The Navel Treatment'?" I corrected, smirking.

Sherlock gagged.

"There's a lot of press outside, guys." Lestrade said, walking over to us.

"Well, they won't be interested in us." Sherlock replied.

"Yeah, that was before you were an internet phenomenon. A couple of them specifically wanted photographs of you two."

Sherlock turned around and glared at me.

"For God's sake!"

I shrugged. I honestly didn't want my picture anywhere in the newspaper. Sherlock walked into one of the dressing rooms and came back with two hats: a deerstalker and a cloche hat. He handed me the cloche hat and pulled on the deerstalker.

"Cover your face and walk fast." He instructed.

I nodded.

"Still, it's good for the public image, a big case like this." Lestrade said.

"I'm a private detective. The last thing I need is a public image." Sherlock said.

He pulled up his collar as we walked outside. Lestrade tried to push the reporters and photographers out the way as we walked. Finally we managed to get into a cab and hurried back to the flat.

Mrs. Hudson was cleaning the flat as Sherlock and I bummed around. I was typing on my blog while Sherlock watched Downton Abbey. I ended up buying him all five seasons. It kept him quiet.

"Ooh dear! Thumbs!" I heard Mrs. Hudson mumbled.  
>Suddenly the door was pushed open and a man timidly looked in. he then proceeded to faint.<p>

"You've got another one!" Mrs. Hudson called.

A few minutes later we had managed to awaken the man and he was now sitting in a chair facing out armchairs. His name was Phil.

"Tell us from the start. _Don't_ be boring." Sherlock said.

Phil began to explain…

Many hours later I was out in the middle of the countryside, alone. Sherlock had stayed back at the flat. I stepped out of the car I was driven there in. An officer walked up to me. Lestrade was supposed to call ahead and inform them that I was coming.

"Sherlock Holmes?" he asked my uncertainly.

"No, Alice Scotts. I'm one of his associates. Are you set up for Wi-Fi?" I asked.

About an hour later I had my laptop's webcam set up back to the flat. Sherlock had just woken up. It was noon. He walked in with a mug of coffee and sat in front of his laptop. He had a white sheet wrapped around him.

"You realize this is a tiny bit humiliating?" I asked.

"It's okay, I'm fine." He yawned.

He took a sip of his coffee.

"Now, show me to the stream."

I sighed, "I didn't really mean for you."

"Look, this is a six. There's no point in my leaving the flat for anything less than a seven. We agreed. Now, go back. Show me the grass." He instructed.

"When did we agree on _that_?" I asked.

"Yesterday."

Sherlock had started to rate how important cases were so he didn't have to leave the flat as much. This was a six out of ten. I walked down towards the stream and showed Sherlock the grass.

"I feel like a vlogger!" I laughed.

Sherlock didn't respond.

"Stop!" he demanded.

I stopped.

"Closer."

I sighed as I moved the laptop closer to the grass. Suddenly I turned the camera back around to face me.

"Hold on a second. I wasn't even at home yesterday. I was in Dublin." I said.

I had been on _another _one of these cases.

"Well, it's hardly _my_ fault you weren't listening." He snapped.

I sighed. I needed to get that man a cat or something. I faintly heard the flat's doorbell ring.

"SHUT UP!" Sherlock screamed at the door.

"Do you just carry on talking when I'm away?" I asked.

"I don't know. How often are you away? Now, show me the car that backfired." He said.

I turned the laptop back around to Phil's car.

"It's there."

"That's the one that made the noise, yes?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah. And if you're thinking gunshot, there wasn't one. He wasn't shot; he was killed by a single blow to the back of the head from a blunt instrument which then magically disappeared along with the killer. That's gotta be an eight at least."

The officer I had met when I first arrived walked over to me.

"You've got two more minutes, then I want to know more about the driver." He said.

"Oh, forget him. He's an idiot. Why else would he think himself a suspect?" Sherlock asked.

"_I_ think he's a suspect!" the officer sighed.

"Pass me over." Sherlock said.

"All right, but there's a Mute button and I _will_ use it." I muttered.

I passed the laptop over to the officer so he could show him more of the car.

"Up a bit! I'm not talking from down 'ere!" Sherlock said.

"Okay, just take it, take it." I sighed.

The officer sighed and started adjusting the laptop's screen. There was a sound of a helicopter nearby.

"Having driven to an isolated location and successfully committed a crime without a single witness, why would he then call the police and consult a detective? Fair play?" Sherlock said quickly.

"He's trying to be clever. It's over-confidence." The officer protested.

Sherlock sighed, "Did you _see_ him? Morbidly obese, the undisguised halitosis of a single man living on his own, the right sleeve of an internet porn addict and the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition. Low self-esteem, tiny IQ and a limited life expectancy, and you think he's an audacious criminal mastermind?!"

Phil was in the background of the chat.

"What did you say? Heart _what_?" he demanded.

"Go to the stream." Sherlock said.

"What's in the stream?" the officer demanded.

"Go and see."

The officer handed Sherlock back to me. Sherlock turned to talk to someone.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked.

"Sherlock, who's there?" I said.

He ignored me. Suddenly, the screen went black.

"Sherlock?" I called.

The chat was over.

"Miss Scotts, it's for you!" another officer called.

I walked over.

"What? The phone?" I asked.

He shook his head, "No, the helicopter."

I looked up and saw the helicopter. This couldn't be good.

I was led into a huge guest living room. That' is right. I was in Buckingham Palace. There were two large couches and a large coffee table between them. On one of the couches was Sherlock. He was still wrapped in his white sheet.

The man who escorted me in gestured for me to sit. I awkwardly sat next to Sherlock. Sherlock didn't say a word. We were silent.

"Are you wearing any pants?" I finally asked.

"No." he replied.

"Okay."

We both shot each other a glance before we burst out laughing.

"At Buckingham Palace, fine. Oh, I'm seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ashtray." I said.

Sherlock chuckled.

"What are we doing here, Sherlock? Seriously, what?"

"I don't know."

"Here to see the Queen?" I asked, using a horrid fake British accent.

Suddenly Mycroft walked in

"Oh, apparently yes." Sherlock said.

I tried to hold back my laughter but couldn't.

"Just once, can you two behave like grown-ups?" Mycroft asked.

"We solve crimes, I blog about it and he forgets his pants, so I wouldn't hold out too much hope." I replied.

Sherlock looked up at his older brother. He was no longer smiling.

"I was in the middle of a case, Mycroft."

"What, the hiker and the backfire? I glanced at the police report. Bit obvious, surely?" the older Holmes brother replied.

"Transparent." Sherlock said.

"Time to move on, then."

Mycroft picked up a bundle of clothes from the coffee table and offered them to Sherlock. They were Sherlock's clothes.

"We are in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British nation. Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on." He said.

Sherlock shrugged.

"What for?"

"Your client."

"And my client is?"

Suddenly another man walked in.

"Illustrious in the extreme." He said as he stood beside Mycroft.

He smiled at Sherlock's brother.

"Mycroft!"

"Harry." Mycroft smiled as they shook hands.

They both sat across from us on the second sofa.

"May I just apologize for the state of my little brother?" Mycroft asked.

"Full-time occupation, I imagine." Harry replied.

Sherlock scowled. Harry turned to us and eyed me up and down.

"So this is that American you have told me so much about." He said.

Sherlock shot me a glance.

"It's a pleasure Miss Scotts. My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog." He said.

"Your employer?" I asked.

"Particularly enjoyed the one about the aluminum crutch." He added.

I smirked.

"Thanks!"

He turned to Sherlock, "And Mr. Holmes the younger. You look taller in your photographs."

"I take the precaution of a good coat and a short friend." Sherlock replied.

I wasn't _that_ short… was I?

"Mycroft, I don't do anonymous clients. I'm used to mystery at _one_ end of my cases. Both ends is too much work." Sherlock said.

He stood up and looked around the room.

"Good morning." He said.

Sherlock started to waddle off in his sheet.

"This is a matter of national importance. Grow up." Mycroft snapped stepping on the back of Sherlock's sheet.

He almost caused Sherlock's sheet to completely fall off. Luckily Sherlock managed to stop it at his waist.

"Get off my sheet!" Sherlock growled.

"Or what?" Mycroft taunted.

"Or I'll just walk away."

"I'll let you."

"Boys, please. Not here." I cut in.

Sherlock glared at his older brother.

"Who. Is. My. _Client_?"

Mycroft smiled, "Take a look at where you're standing and make a deduction. You are to be engaged by the highest in the land. Now _for God's sake _put your clothes on!"

A few minutes later, Sherlock was back in his normal clothes. Mycroft was pouring us all tea.

"I'll be mother." He said.

"And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell." Sherlock muttered.

I smirked as Mycroft glowered.

"My employer has a problem." Harry continued as Mycroft distributed the tea.

"A matter has come to light of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature, and in this hour of need, dear brother, your name has arisen." Mycroft continued, sitting back down.

"Why? You have a police force of sorts, even a marginally Secret Service. Why come to me?" Sherlock asked.

"People do come to you for help, don't they, Mr. Holmes?" Harry asked.

"Not, to date, anyone with a Navy." Sherlock replied.

"This is a matter of the highest security, and therefore of trust." Mycroft said.

I scoffed, "You don't trust your own Secret Service?"

Mycroft nodded.

"Naturally not. They all spy on people for money."

I had to stop myself from smiling.

"I do think we have a timetable." Harry added.

"Yes, of course. What do you know about this woman?" Mycroft asked.

He opened a suitcase and handed Sherlock some pictures. They were of a woman scarcely clad in… well anything. She looked familiar though.

"Nothing whatsoever." Sherlock replied.

"Then you should be paying more attention." Mycroft said.

Sherlock continued to flip through the pictures. I already didn't like the woman.

"She's been at the centre of two political scandals in the last year, and recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both participants separately." Mycroft explained.

"You know I don't concern myself with trivia. Who is she?" my flatmate asked,

"Irene Adler, professionally known as _The Woman_."

That's right. I had heard of _the Woman _before. Back in New York. One of my friends had heard of her.

"Professionally?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft shrugged, "There are many names for what she does. She prefers '_dominatrix'_."

"Dominatrix." Sherlock repeated.

Mycroft sighed, "Don't be alarmed. It's to do with sex."

"Sex doesn't alarm me."

Mycroft smirked.

"How would you know?"

Sherlock and Mycroft glared at each other for a few moments.

Finally, Mycroft continued, "She provides, shall we say, recreational scolding for those who enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it. These are all from her website."

He handed us more pictures. And those pictures were… quite something.

"And I assume this Adler woman has some compromising photographs." I asked.

"You're very quick, Miss Scotts." Harry said.

I smiled.

"Hardly a difficult deduction. Photographs of whom?" Sherlock asked.

"A person of significance to my employer. We'd prefer not to say any more at this time." Harry replied.

"You can't tell us _anything_?" I asked.

Mycroft shrugged, "I can tell you it's a young person. A young _female_ person."

Sherlock smirked.

"How _many _photographs?" he asked.

"A considerable number, apparently." Mycroft shrugged before taking a sip of his tea.

"Do Miss Adler and this young female person appear in these photographs together?" I asked.

"Yes, they do."

"And I assume in a number of compromising scenarios." Sherlock added.

"An imaginative range, we are assured." Mycroft replied.

I took a sip of my tea. For Buckingham Palace tea, is wasn't very good.

"Can you help us, Mr. Holmes?" Harry asked.

Sherlock sighed, "How?"

"Will you take the case?"

"What case? Pay her, now and in full. As Miss Adler remarks in her masthead, 'Know when you are beaten'." He quoted.

Sherlock reached for his trench coat, preparing to leave.

"She doesn't want anything. She got in touch, she informed us that the photographs existed, she indicated that she had no intention to use them to extort either money or favor." Mycroft explained.

Sherlock seemed interested.

"Oh, a power play. A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now that _is_ a dominatrix. Ooh, this is getting rather fun, isn't it? Where is she?" he asked.

Mycroft thought for a moment before continuing, "In London currently. She's staying…"

Sherlock cut him off, "Text me the details. I'll be in touch by the end of the day."

"Do you really think you'll have news by then?" Harry asked.

"No, I think I'll have the photographs." Sherlock smirked.

Harry smiled, "One can only hope you're as good as you seem to think."

Sherlock turned to Mycroft as he stood up.

"I'll need some equipment, of course."

"Anything you require. I'll have it sent to…"

"Can I have a box of matches?" Sherlock immediately asked.

Harry stared at him dumbfounded.

Sherlock shrugged, "Or your cigarette lighter. Either will do."

"I don't smoke." Harry replied.

"No, I know _you_ don't, but your employer does."

Harry stared at Sherlock in shock.

"We have kept a lot of people successfully in the dark about this little fact, Mr. Holmes." He finally said.

"I'm not the Commonwealth." Sherlock replied.

Harry sighed and handed Sherlock his cigarette lighter.

"And that's as modest as he gets. Pleasure to meet you." I said, following my flatmate.

"Laters!" Sherlock called behind his shoulder as we left.

A little while later we were in a cab going… somewhere. I forgot exactly where.

"Okay, the smoking. How did you know?" I asked.

Sherlock smiled as he looked out the window.

"The evidence was right under your nose, Alice. As ever, you see but do not observe."

"Observe what?" I asked.

Sherlock reached into his coat and pulled out… an ashtray?

"The ashtray."

I laughed in delight as Sherlock smiled at the tray.


End file.
